I Tell the Stars Each Night
by leftlanden
Summary: The events of the summer between jr and sr years for Rachel, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany. Short-term schemes and long-term plans, milestones and mistakes, a short road trip or two, and lots of talking  mostly, but not entirely, to each other.  Also, sex.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note #1: **This story is set in the same 'verse as Santana Lopez Can, In Fact, Do Anything, Santana Lopez Likes What She Likes, Okay?, The Mess You Left, and Santana Lopez Makes Sure Things Are Win-Win.

**Author's Note #2**: The timeline for this story is non-linear. Each segment comes with a date that, while doesn't need to be memorized, should be noted for its overall placement within the summer months.

**Author's Note #3**: The site makes you pick one main pairing, but this story is equal parts Faberry, Brittana, and the friendships among the four characters.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Monday, August 29, 2011  3:25pm**

"So maybe it'll happen to me, too."

"Maybe what will happen to you?"

Quinn's shoulders slumped. Weren't therapists supposed to be perceptive?

"What happened to Santana," she clarified with a sigh. "How one day she knew she had to."

Quinn's therapist smiled and twirled his pen end over end. She knew that smile – it meant she had said something that excited him; she already recognized this air of carefully detached hopefulness. Something encouraging yet vague was about to come out of his mouth in 3, 2, 1. . .

"It must be helpful that you have friends who are going through the same things as you."

Quinn stared at him for a beat. Sometimes, he really didn't get it. She shook her head in frustration.

"You disagree?" he said, and she noted with satisfaction that his smile became approximately fifty percent smaller. "You don't feel grateful to have their support?"

"What I'm saying is, they are not going through the same things as me." She leaned back in her comfy leather chair. "It's different for everyone."

She almost felt bad. Rachel was probably never this much of a bitch in therapy. Quinn looked down at her hands, finding her fingers nervously massaging one another.

_You wanted to come here, Quinn. Say something productive._

"I—" she started, and he practically vibrated with anticipation. "I am lucky, though," she finished, pushing each word reluctantly from her lips. She gazed out the window. "I suppose I know that."

His smile came back, and her sympathy waned.

"What makes you lucky, Quinn?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

She knew wasn't going to get away with it, but it bought her some time.

"Quinn, after four sessions, I know you better than that."

"Technically, it's only been three and a third."

"I'll rephrase. After a limited number of sessions, I suspect that you must have some idea how to back up your statement, or you wouldn't have spoken at all. What makes you lucky?"

Quinn winced and looked up at the ceiling, bracing for the mental anguish the next word was about to bring. She hated therapy so, incredibly much. Like, really.

"Santana," she sighed.

Of all the smiles in her therapist's repertoire, this had to be the most annoying one she had ever fucking seen.

He nodded his head once. "So Santana's support _is_ important to you."

"If it qualifies as support when someone hasn't punched you in over a month."

She felt guilty as soon as she said it, as soon as she minimized things. Flashes of Santana's charcoal gray walls, blurred by tears in the blue-tint of early morning light, played in her mind's eye.

"_You can't drive like this, Q. Just lie down, okay?" _

"_I should go, but. . . I haven't slept yet."_

When she zoned back into the moment she found Dr. Reese looking at her with mild disapproval.

"Okay," she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Santana is nearly always intolerable. But once in a while she says things that maybe I need to hear. It's probably usually by accident, but it happens."

"Sometimes honesty can feel brutal," Dr. Reese opined. He gave her another little smile, and now he was waiting for her to go on. Even she knew this was the oldest therapy trick in the book. She probably could have waited him out if she wanted to.

"She and Brittany both do that."

"Brittany – you said she was the young lady Santana was dating?"

Quinn nodded.

"Yes. With her it's completely different. When Santana says things, it's usually because she's found something wrong with you and wants to point it out. Brittany sandwiches her real life thoughts in between humming a song she made up about ponies and telling me she has a business meeting with her cat."

Dr. Reese smiled again, using his eyes this time. "Maybe I should get her in here next."

"Don't do that to yourself," Quinn smirked. "Although there might be some kind of Nobel Prize in it for you if you can figure out her mind."

He chuckled. "Well, I'd like to hear more about them both the next time we meet. But Quinn, before we run out of time – we haven't talked about Rachel in a couple of weeks."

Quinn chewed on the inside of her cheek. Well, that took the mirth out of the air.

"Have you spoken to her lately?" he asked quietly.

"Actually, yes," Quinn said, lifting her chin a little. "I had coffee with her last week."

"Good for you for reaching out. How did it go?"

_Rachel. I'm sorry if I ruined your summer._

_That's kind of a strange way to put it, Quinn. Like you broke our vacation plans, or something. _

_Well, I mean. . . I did break our plans._

Quinn shrugged. "We weren't there very long. I gave her my research paper to read."

"A paper for school?"

"No, the thirty-page research paper I wrote just for kicks."

He scowled and cocked his head to the side.

"Sorry."

"What's the paper about?"

"Religion and homosexuality. Summer homework for one of my AP classes. I. . . don't know why I gave it to her. That was ridiculous."

"It sounds like you want her to know how much you've learned this summer."

"Yeah, well." Quinn leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and pressed the palms of her hands together. "I haven't heard back from her. She's probably too busy with rehearsal to read it."

_Or__she__doesn__'__t__care._

"The important thing for now is that you reached out, Quinn. I think that's a great step forward, and at a manageable pace."

"Mmm," Quinn said. She watched as her left nails sank into the fabric of her jeans. "I suppose."

**Friday, June 3, 2011 / 11:54pm**

Beneath her, Rachel's breath had slowed.

Quinn followed the shadowed contours of her face in the dark, her own chest still rising and falling a little heavy. She curled her fingers against the inside of Rachel's thigh, extracting her hand.

"Rachel," she whispered. "Hey, Rach." She cradled the side of Rachel's face against the pillow.

Rachel's eyelashes fluttered. "Mmmm," she said.

Rachel smiled, but didn't open her eyes as Quinn stroked the side of her face with her thumb. Quinn stretched her neck so that her lips could brush against Rachel's chin.

"Hey," she whispered, "Don't fall asleep yet."

Rachel stretched her arms above her head and emitted a high-pitched syllable of protest. She tried to roll onto her side, and wrapped her arms around Quinn, trying to take her along.

Quinn laughed, and held her in place. "Yes, you show off, your upper range is improving all the time."

"Whyyyy?" Rachel whined groggily, abandoning her efforts to roll, realizing she'd been beaten.

Quinn was unsure whether the monosyllabic question referred to why her singing voice was under discussion, why she had to be awake, or why Quinn wasn't currently spooning her. Rachel opened one eye to see Quinn smiling down at her.

"Because."

Clearly she wasn't going to get her way using her rhetorical prowess. Quinn shook her head back and forth, tossing her hair to let it fall over their faces like a curtain. She rocked her head side to side, tickling Rachel's scrunched-up face.

"If you want to sleep, you should quit being cute," she said.

"I'm sleeeeeepy," Rachel whined.

"I know, you mentioned. Your problem is, I'm not." Quinn pressed the palm of her hand into Rachel's hip.

Rachel covered Quinn's hand with her own. "I have a callback in the morning," she reminded Quinn gently. But the hitch in her voice was unmistakable.

"That's okay, because . . . I think . . . you should do your audition with no sleep," Quinn said, her lips trailing down to the softest part of Rachel's neck, where her pulse point met her chin. "You want it to be fair, don't you? For the other contestants?"

Rachel delighted inwardly at Quinn's choice of the word "contestants." She smiled in return for the compliment.

"Hey, you're coming with me, right?" she asked, finally blinking open her eyes.

"Ahh. You know I have church and brunch on Sunday mornings, Archie," Quinn chastised. She shifted her hips to one side make space for her hand between their bodies.

Rachel combined a moan at the touch of Quinn's fingertips with a giggle at the use of the accidental nickname that had sputtered from Quinn's lips a few days ago.

"Noo, come with me," Rachel wheedled, pulling Quinn's body against her at the small of her back. "You know those old church ladies are gonna kick you out soon anyway."

Quinn flicked the sensitive skin of Rachel's inner thigh with her index finger. "Shhhh."

"Ow! No, it's true," Rachel continued, "I'm planning to tell them all about us so I can have you all to myself."

"But you have me now," Quinn reminded her, "and all you want to do is sleep."

"I'm a notorious liar when I'm woken unexpectedly," Rachel said, suddenly speaking in lucid, Rachel-length sentences.

"Oh, good morning," Quinn said, amused.

Rachel rolled Quinn onto her back.

"Hi," she said quietly, looking down at Quinn in the dark. And as she locked her eyes with Quinn's, the smiles drained from both of their faces.

"Why don't you ask me again what I want to do, Quinn?" Rachel said against Quinn's lips.

**Saturday, June 4 / 1:05am**

Santana jolted awake, and it did not feel good.

"Fuck," she whispered into the darkness. She reached over the side of the bed, fumbling for the comforter she had kicked to the ground.

The sweat on her skin had dried, and she was shivering like. . .shit, isn't there some kind of drug addict that shivers? Fuck it, she was frozen solid. This was not a time to worry about politically incorrect similes.

Brittany stirred, feeling Santana pull away.

"You have goosebumps," she said as Santana curled into a backwards ball against her. Brittany rolled onto her side to spoon Santana, and ran her fingertips over her far arm, her collarbone, and her chest. Santana closed her eyes and smiled, feeling the silk of Brittany's fingertips draw up little waves of goosebumps in their wake.

"Oh, you have one really big one right here," Brittany said, pinching Santana's nipple between her fingers and thumb.

Santana jerked away and smacked at Brittany's hand. "Hey!"

Brittany wrapped her hand around Santana's left hip and pulled her close. "Be still, I'm sleeping," she said.

"You're full of shit."

Brittany ran her fingertips over Santana's stomach. Santana stilled herself, breathing in as Brittany's fingers swept upwards; breathing out as the trailed back down and curled over the curve of her hips. If only she could purr.

She was almost asleep for the second time that night.

And then.

"Babe, are you happy about Rachel and Quinn?"

Santana opened one eye halfway. "Whaa?"

"Cause I'm happy, but sometimes I feel really surprised," Brittany explained.

Santana closed her eyes again, her expression pained. So it was going to be one of those times.

"Britt . . . just stop questioning it and enjoy how they're both less intolerable when they're together," she muttered. She arched her back a little to bring her stomach into more contact with Brittany's hand. If Brittany was going to keep her awake, she could at least keep making her feel good.

"Don't you think it's fast, though?" Brittany persisted, taking the hint and pressing her palm into Santana's belly.

"I so, so do not care," Santana murmured. She scooted backwards, urging Brittany closer, and wiggled her feet in between Brittany's. They were so much warmer.

Brittany smiled.

"What are we going to do this summer, Santana?"

"Sleep in," Santana said pointedly. "Get a tan, if I get up before the sun goes down."

"It's our last high school summer vacation. Don't you want to do stuff?"

Santana sighed. She was hopelessly awake now, thanks to the combination of Brittany's questions and the insistent percussion of her fingertips. She rolled over on top of Brittany and pulled her knees up against her sides.

"Oh, I wants to do stuff," she affirmed in a whisper, her lips against Brittany's neck.

Brittany grasped Santana's hips and pulled her downward against her lower stomach.

"Mmnnngh," Santana groaned.

"I like when you get my tummy all sticky," Brittany said, rocking Santana's hips back and forth with her hands.

"Yeah?" Santana whispered.

"Hey Santana, we should talk about our future this summer. Like, what we want to do and stuff."

Santana whimpered, "Why?'

"Cause, we're seniors this year. We have to make plans. Like colleges and stuff."

"Why . . . are you . . . talking about this?" Santana panted. Brittany let go of her hips as Santana moved against her on her own, now.

"It's important," Brittany said, biting her bottom lip as she watched Santana move.

"If you're going to keep blabbering why don't you put your mouth somewhere useful?"

Brittany smiled, amused. "Oh, did you want to go again? I thought you were tired."

"You know what you're doing right now, you cunt," Santana murmured, eyes closed, grinding down against Brittany.

"When you get this sexy you're always so grumpy."

"Britt, no seriously, I love you, but shut the fuck up now."

"But I like you when you're desperate."

Santana panted, digging her nails into Brittany's shoulders. "Mission fucking accomplished."

"Do you want my fingers inside you?"

"It's either yours or mine."

"No, I want to do it," Brittany frowned.

"You have two seconds," Santana threatened.

"Kay," Brittany said, finally devoid of her ability to tease.

**Sunday, July 17 / 11:40am**

Santana slammed her car door and stormed up the walkway to the Fabrays' front door, her blood pressure so high she could hear it pounding in her head.

She knocked twice, sharply.

"Santana!" Judy said, surprised, as she opened the door. "It's been quite a while. Come in."

"Thanks, Mrs. Fabray," Santana said, with the politest smile she could muster. "Is Quinn home?"

"She's upstairs in her room. Quinnie! Santana's here to see you!"

There was no answer.

"Let me go and see if she's taking a nap," Judy offered, turning to ascend the stairs. "She wasn't feeling that well in church this morning."

Santana crossed her arms, chewed her lip, and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. It felt like Judy was gone for-fucking-ever, but time tended to pass really slowly when you were waiting to kill someone.

"I'm sorry, Santana," Judy said as she reappeared at the top of the stairs. "She said she's not feeling well enough for any visitors today. She says if you need help with your SAT homework to send her a message on the Facebook." She smiled weakly.

"Oh," Santana said, pressing her lips into a frown. "Okay, well, that's too bad. That she's feeling sick," she said, her voice growing unnaturally loud. "I did need her help, too. Not with the SAT, though. See, we have this friend RACHEL BERRY. I think you've met her, right Mrs. Fabray?"

"I believe that's the young lady who accompanied Quinn to her cousin Sherie's wedding last weekend."

"Mmhmm, that's her," Santana affirmed. "That's the GIRL Quinn brought to the WEDDING. Anyway, I really need to talk to Quinn about her – about RACHEL BERRY, the GIRL who -"

"Santana!" Quinn called out from upstairs. "Just shut up and get up here."

Santana charged up the stairs and turned the corner in the hallway to see Quinn standing in the doorway to her bedroom. Without losing any momentum, she put her fingertips against Quinn's shoulders and shoved.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing?" she demanded as Quinn stumbled backwards, unsteady on her feet. Quinn's eyes flared, but Santana could tell right away there was no fight in her anywhere else.

In fact, it was hard to believe this girl had made a public appearance at church this morning. Her hair was a mess – like the worst bed head ever – and her eyes were bloodshot. The bathroom wastebasket sat on the bedside table, and an empty bottle of brandy lay on its side on her dresser.

"I'm trying to sleep," Quinn said, her voice hoarse and low. "Yell at me if you have to, and then get out."

"Damn, you're a serious fucking mess, chica," Santana said. "And I don't just mean your hair."

"What, did you think it would be easy for me?" Quinn asked, running her fingers through her hair and sitting down gingerly on her bed.

"Yeah, actually," Santana said, seizing a golden opportunity to get right to her point. "I think being a goddamn coward comes pretty fucking easy to you."

"Can you keep your voice down? You don't even know what you're talking about."

"Really? Okay, well, let's review the situation, shall we, and you stop me when I've got something wrong. You cut Berry loose, right? And first, you tried to blame it on me. When that didn't work, you called her pushy and insensitive because you know she's touchy about that and she'd believe you. But the actual problem is that you're trying to convince everyone, including yourself, that you feel about that douchebag the way you feel about Rachel. And now you're going to spend the rest of the summer pretending you like him and don't love her, no matter how much it makes you want to drink yourself to death on old lady liquor. Did I miss anything?"

"Santana," Quinn said, pressing her fingertips to her temples and rubbing in circles, "What I said to Rachel wasn't a lie. Things were out of control. I didn't ever have a chance to think, stop being overwhelmed –"

"Yeah, that's called being in love, Q."

Quinn shook her head. She looked up at Santana. "You pushed it."

"Oh, what now?"

"You pushed us together faster than we were ready. It didn't happen naturally at all. I got carried away, because when I'm with her, or with you and Brittany, I forget. I forget there's all this other stuff to deal with."

"Seriously, I know, having a group of friends you can be yourself with is a total fucking bitch. Q, listen," she continued, sitting next to Quinn on the bed. "If you want to blame me – if that's what you need to do, whatever. Fucking knock yourself out. I don't care, because I get that you're scared. But you have to know that you're only making it worse."

Quinn shook her head. "I have chemistry with him. I owe it to myself to figure out if . . . if it could be real. Aren't you the one who said I have the right to be happy?"

"Q, I think you and I are having a serious misunderstanding between the two of us over the definition of the word happy."

"Santana," Quinn said, defeated, "You're my friend, aren't you? A minute ago that's what you called yourself? Can you understand that this is something I need to do, and respect my decision?"

"You know what?" Santana said, standing, her adrenaline rush spent. "Believe me, I understand it perfectly. But respecting it? That ain't gonna happen."

Santana left Quinn on the bed and closed the bedroom door behind her. The morning's long workout seemed to catch up with her all at once. At the bottom of the stairs, Judy Fabray reappeared from the living room.

"Is everything okay, Santana?" she asked, her hands twitching nervously. "With Quinn, I mean?"

Santana paused and looked into Judy Fabray's worried face. _Not__in__the__fucking__slightest,__and__you__are__part__of__her__problem_.

"You might want to put a lock on your liquor cabinet," she said, and then let herself out.

**Thursday, July 7 / 10:03pm**

Santana sat at her desk next to a pile of textbooks and study guides, snapping through the pages of the latest US Weekly.

"I bet the cheerleaders there don't even use a tanning salon," Brittany blurted into the silence of the room.

"Huh?" Santana said, not looking up.

"In Los Angeles," Brittany smiled. "They probably all have gorgeous tan skin and blonde hair. It would be like if you and me could scramble our eggs and make a baby, and it grew up and became a cheerleader at USC."

Santana set down her magazine. "Can you stop?"

Brittany's smile contracted. "Stop what? I was saying how you're going to see a bunch of gorgeous girls this weekend. I thought it would make you happy instead of being so nervous."

"I'm not nervous." She snapped the magazine shut. "And you need to stop saying everyone on God's green Earth is gorgeous."

"Why?"

"Because you say everyone is hot – every celebrity we talk about, everyone we know – Quinn, Rachel, Lauren freaking Zizes. You even like that shaggy comb-over helmet that Artie calls his hair. You're like a nanosecond from your compliments losing all meaning whatsoever."

"But the people I say are hot _are_ hot."

"No, okay, that's gross. Brittany, listen to me, you need to take a look in the mirror. Unless someone is as hot as you, they don't deserve your praise. Why do you think I never compliment anyone?"

"You compliment people all the time."

Santana rolled her eyes. "Only behind their backs."

"Okay, look Santana," Brittany said, "I don't really get it, but if you say it bothers you, I'll be more careful."

Santana looked at her sadly. There was something else about what Brittany had said that wouldn't quit nagging at her.

"Britt, why don't you ever get jealous? I'm like, about to go to LA to spend the weekend with a bunch of college cheerleaders, and you're sitting here reminding me how hot they're going to be."

"I don't know. I guess I'm not a jealous person," Brittany said.

That did not make Santana feel better in the least.

"Whatever," she said, and reached for her magazine.

"So what are you saying, Santana?" Brittany asked, annoyed by Santana's tone. "That I should be jealous like you? Like how you won't even let me talk to Artie?"

"Are you seriously pissed about that? Of course I don't want you to talk to Artie – he's your ex."

"But, you still hang out with Rachel. Last weekend you spent Friday night at Puck's and he had no pants on the entire time."

"That's completely different."

"Why? Because it's you and not me?"

"Because I wasn't in love with them!"

Brittany fell silent.

"Okay, I didn't know how upset this stuff made you," she said, finally.

"Would it matter if you did?" Santana asked quietly.

"Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you do whatever you want, whether it pisses me off or not."

"Okay, Santana, can you tell me what you're talking about, because all I hear right now is you making mean noises."

"I'm talking about how maybe I wasn't ready for your mother to know about us."

"Santana," Brittany said in disbelief, "She knew about us three years ago."

"And our future cheerleading coach?"

This gave Brittany brief pause. "But, why do you care? She's not going to be your coach, because you hate Toledo and you're not coming with me."

Santana paused to let the pang in her stomach subside. "That's not the point, Brittany. The point is it's MY decision who I tell about us."

"I disagree, Santana, I think it's _our_ decision."

"Okay, you know what? It can be our decision. But that means we make it together, and that still means you have to ask me first."

"But you would say no."

"Exactly! Exactly, Britt."

"So are you just going to lie to all the people at USC? Tell them you're dating Puck or Sam or something?"

"No," Santana said, shaking her head. "No, I don't want to do that. If they ask, I'll tell them I'm single."

"Then what if someone hits on you?"

She hadn't thought of that. "Whatever, I'll figure it out. It's not like I don't turn people down constantly."

"Okay, Santana." Brittany stood up from the bed. "I think I'm gonna go home, cause we always fight when you're scared, and your plane is early tomorrow, so you should go to sleep."

Santana watched Brittany slip on her shoes and gather her stuff._If__you__know__I__'__m__scared,__then__stay__with__me._

"All right," she said, shrugging.

"I love you, Santana. Have fun and call me every day." Brittany wrapped her arms around Santana.

"It's only two days," Santana said, muffled by Brittany's shoulder. It was a reassurance meant mostly for herself.

"I'll miss you anyway."

"I'll miss you, too."

"Okay. See you Monday."

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Brittany kissed Santana's cheek and gave her a little wave as she closed the door behind her.

**Monday, July 25 / 6:30pm**

Brittany was stalling.

She was pretending she was looking at stuff on the internet, but the truth was, she still wasn't sure she wanted to do what she sat down to do.

She clicked the top of her page again to refresh her top stories, smiling in relief as brand new pictures of the baby of some distant relative appeared to distract her for thirty more seconds.

This baby wasn't that cute. His eyes were looking at each other and it was giving her the creeps. She refreshed again, but there was nothing new.

"What do you think, Tubbs?" she asked absently, not even aware her monstrous pet was snoring beneath her chair. "It could make things worse. Am I just being a chicken?"

Hearing his name, the cat meowed sleepily, stretched, and turned around to nap facing the opposite direction.

"You're so right," Brittany nodded. "I should do it."

She clicked on the messages icon, then "new message."

She typed in "A-r-t", then clicked on Artie's name.

"I was wondering if you wanted to talk sometime," she typed.

_Hmm_, she thought, rereading her text. _Sounds__so__serious_.

She thought for a second, erased the period at the end of the sentence, and added "about video games." She smiled in satisfaction. That was better, because then he would think she wanted to talk about something fun.

She leaned over the side of her chair to peer at LT, who was still snoozing at her feet. He lifted his head an inch or so and blinked at her encouragingly.

Brittany righted herself, put her hand back on the mouse, and clicked on "send."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

><p><strong>Saturday, June 11  9:30pm**

Quinn sat on a stack of storage bins in the corner of Brittany's garage, tapping the toes of her shoes together, cursing herself for agreeing to be here. The guitar she had been ordered to bring leaned against the wall next to her.

A few feet to her right, Brittany sat solemnly behind a drum kit. She was frowning, tracing patterns on the snare with one of her drumsticks.

To her left, near the front of the "stage" drawn on the concrete floor with chalk, Santana and Rachel stood toe-to-toe on opposite sides of a microphone stand, bickering.

No wait, strike that – yelling. They were yelling.

"Santana, you have to give me one of those songs. It's totally uneven!"

"You seem to be under the delusion that this is a democracy, Tom Paine. But this was my idea and I be the emperor up in here. And since you've already stolen two songs from me, you need to keep your sticky fingers off the rest of them, you got that?"

Quinn shook her head. This is exactly why she had brought her backpack jammed full of other things to do. She reached down and unzipped it, and retrieved a history textbook that threatened to pull her forward onto the floor as soon as she tried to lift it.

Two paragraphs into her assignment, she felt a presence at her side.

"What are you doing?" Brittany asked, still clutching one drumstick in either hand.

"Reading my history book," Quinn answered hesitantly, closing the cover halfway to show her the title.

"Why?"

"Because I have summer homework and sitting here doing nothing but watching them argue is wasting my time."

"But, how can you have homework in the summer? We don't even see our teachers."

Quinn sighed. "Sometimes when you take AP classes, you get the syllab – the course schedule in the mail. They make you read ahead to get ready for the new class. For this one I have to turn in a paper on the first day of school."

Brittany nodded, clearly unconvinced of the veracity of this tale.

"It's just like having homework over night or over a weekend," Quinn tried again. "Only you have three months to get it done."

Brittany was ready to move on. "I'm glad I don't have to take your smart classes. Hey, I didn't know you played guitar."

"I don't," Quinn stated flatly. "Sam taught me exactly three chords. Santana seems to think that qualifies me for her band."

"Is it yours?"

"Yeah," Quinn nodded. "I wanted it when I was younger, like 11 or something."

"I can't play the drums, either. These are my brother's. I want to ask him to teach me, but he can't play them either, mostly because my mom says when he practices it aggravates her latent aneurysm."

Quinn was unsure whether to laugh.

Brittany grew silent, pensively observing the argument. Far from working itself out, it seemed to be escalating. "I think they just want an excuse to sing their favorite songs and fight," she concluded.

That, Quinn could agree with.

Rachel was waving a clipboard above her head. "No, I didn't!"

"Except that you totally freaking did!"

"I did not steal your riff. Santana, I don't even know what that means!"

"It means I was trying to SING, Berry, and all I can hear are your whale noises in my ears. Now sit your skinny ass down at your keyboard and sing your harmonies and otherwise shut your trap!"

"Santana," Rachel said, pressing the palms of her hands together in a gesture that looked like a prayer, "Be reasonable. It's a well-established fact that when you have an instrument like mine you simply cannot contain it. It bursts forth from your very soul and you—"

"Oh, really? Well I have a couple of instruments right here that are about to burst forth all across your face if you don't can it in a hurry."

As Santana squeezed her hands into fists, Rachel threw up her clipboard as a shield.

Quinn slammed closed her textbook with a thud. "That's enough!"

She slid off the tower of storage bins, took the drumstick from Brittany's nearer hand, and strode to the microphone.

"Santana, back off," she said, pointing it at her throat. "Give Rachel the Kelly Clarkson song. You've already claimed songs by a million different artists, and Rachel's voice is better for that one. Rachel," Quinn continued, turning to look at her girlfriend as she tentatively lowered the clipboard from her face, "Maybe for songs where Santana sings lead you could turn down your mic just A TAD to counteract any further soul-bursting you feel compelled to do."

"Bossy Quinn is so hot," Brittany observed, momentarily drawing Santana's glare away from Quinn.

"Um, since when do you get to swoop in and make decisions?" Santana asked, grasping the drumstick and shoving it out of the vicinity of her face. "You're supposed to be over there learning your songs while Berry and me work out the vocals."

"Maybe I can't focus because of all the yapping going on, due to the fact that neither of you has ever HEARD the word compromise."

"Oooh, I have," Brittany raised her hand. "I know that one."

"You know what?" Santana said, gesturing to Quinn's textbook and backpack, "You're not even pretending to give a shit about this project. You don't get a say."

"Guys, maybe we should call it a night, okay?" Rachel interjected meekly. "We have more than enough songs decided to enable everyone to practice at home on her own."

Quinn and Santana didn't move, holding each other's glares, so Rachel took Quinn's hand and led her to the opposite side of the room. "Come on, Quinn."

Brittany bounded to Santana's side, jubilant that the tension had finally broken. "Wanna stay?" she asked. "My mom bought a brand new jar of the peanut butter with the marshmallow stripes. "

A flash of a smile crossed Santana's face, but she shook her head. "Not tonight, Britt."

"But, we can rent Spice World on Netflix again."

"Babe, I can't."

Overhearing this conversation while she was packing up her backpack to go, Quinn turned to look over her shoulder.

"Can I help you, Nellie Nosey-pants?"

Quinn wouldn't ask the question lest Santana think she actually gave a shit, but her puzzled expression did it for her. Santana was forced to weigh which was worse: acknowledging that she was susceptible to parental pressure, or letting Quinn think there was a rift between herself and Brittany.

"My mom's been asking why I never come home, okay?"

"You can't make an excuse?" Quinn asked.

"I'm running out. Two days ago I had to tell her Brittany walked headfirst into a street lamp and I had to stay to make sure she didn't fall asleep with a concussion."

"_Your_ mother believed that?"

"I was desperate. Plus the street lamp part was, like, true."

Brittany nodded vigorously.

Quinn chose to accept that without further inquiry.

Rachel, who had been patiently waiting for this conversation to be over, piped up. "Okay, moving on. Remember, we meet at 8:30 sharp at Quinn's on Monday for our first volunteer day! Make sure you bring your signed waivers and background check forms, and I suggest wearing comfortable shoes and the ugliest t-shirt you can find, because many of the children WILL be armed with finger paint. And, you know, boogers."

"I don't have anything ugly," Santana said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "But it's cool. If we're meeting at Quinn's maybe we can raid her closet before we leave. Walk me out, Britt?"

Quinn rolled her eyes as she and Rachel watched them disappear down the driveway and into the back seat of Santana's car, which was parked at a 45-degree angle about two-thirds of the way down the driveway. It was the only spot, which was apparent now that it was dark, which was out of the reach of both the driveway spotlight and street lamps that lined the sidewalk.

"I wondered when I got here why she parked so weirdly," Rachel said, slightly in awe. "It was bad even for Santana. Anyway," she said, turning to Quinn with a smile. "That was very romantic, the way you came to my defense just now."

Quinn smirked. "I should have brought the guitar rather than the drumstick," she said. "It's bigger."

"Well," Rachel said, wrapping her arms around Quinn's waist, "Don't worry. I'm sure there will be a next time."

"I'm sure," Quinn said absently. "Hey, I have something to tell you, actually, Rach."

Rachel raised her eyebrows expectantly. It was weird how, when Quinn made this sort of announcement, she never had any idea whether the upcoming news was going to be good or bad.

"I got a summer internship," Quinn said with a smile. "That's why I was a little late today – I was at orientation."

"Quinn!" Rachel exclaimed, and hugged her. "I didn't even know you were looking for one. That's amazing! Where?"

"It's at a biology lab at Ohio State. It's for some kind of high school outreach program. My AP bio teacher nominated me last semester, and Figgins and Mr. Schuester wrote recommendation letters about how I'd be a great representative of McKinley, or something. I start next week."

Rachel pressed her fingers to her lips and fanned herself with the other hand. "My girl is just the smartest. I'm so proud. But, I feel bad – I didn't even know you liked biology."

"I don't," Quinn laughed. "At least, I didn't know I did. My teacher thought I had an aptitude for it, so." She shrugged.

Rachel pursed her lips, the down side of this bit of good news just occurring to her. "It sounds like you might be too busy for all of our summer plans."

"It's only ten hours a week, so. I won't be any busier than you'll be with rehearsal."

"You're right," Rachel said, the wheels in her head already visibly turning. "With a well-oiled schedule I'm sure we can fit everything in."

Quinn stifled a chuckle. "Are you trying to say things that sound ambiguously dirty?"

Rachel blushed. "I think it's all in the ear of the beholder. What's on your mind, Quinn?"

"Maybe the fact that I already told my mom I wasn't coming home tonight."

"Ahhh," Rachel said, smiling and stepping closer to put her arms around Quinn's waist. "Well, shall we go, then?"

"I'm ready."

"Don't you want to bring your guitar?"

"Oh, um," Quinn stammered. Shit, now she was busted beyond a doubt for having no plans whatsoever to actually practice playing that thing. "How about if I let you try to redeem yourself at Rock Band later? Does that count as practicing?"

"The things I let you get away with because you're cute," Rachel said with a sigh, taking Quinn's hand and starting down the driveway.

Quinn smiled and squeezed Rachel's hand. "I really, really wish we didn't have to walk past Santana's car to get to mine," she said, slowing her pace as they got closer.

Rachel laughed. "I'll protect you. It's the least I can do in return for your earlier chivalry."

Rachel hugged Quinn's face into her shoulder. "Come on. Let's run past, I've got you!"

Before Quinn could decide whether she was onboard with that idea, Rachel took off at top speed, pulling her toward the street.

**Monday, August 15 / 4:30am**

As soon as Santana woke up, she knew something was. . . well, not wrong, exactly. But something was definitely not right.

She was wide awake immediately, for one, even though the clock on her phone read 4:30am.

Blinking up at her ceiling in the pitch black room, she felt sweat prickling at the back of her neck. Fuck, it was really hot in here. That must be what woke her – her father must've turned down the AC overnight again. She hated that shit, the fucking cheap ass. She kicked off the covers and pressed herself flat against the cool sheet beneath her. She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

No, this wasn't going to work. She needed water; her throat was totally dry. She pulled on her robe and went downstairs.

She felt a little like she was hungover, which was pretty unfair since she hadn't done anything fun last night. But her head felt woozy and her heart was beating just a little too fast, a lot like the after effects of too much cheap beer.

It was also weird, though, how her hand was shaking as she tried to bring the glass of water to her lips. Shit, she was obviously coming down with something. She was sweating pretty much everywhere now. It felt like her insides were on fire, and not in the good sex way. Well this was just great, because she totally needed to get sick with only a few weeks left to train for tryouts.

So one second she was standing there with the glass of water at her lips, pissed off at her bad luck, and the next she was slamming the glass down on the kitchen counter and bracing herself with both hands, because the world was turning grainy and unreal in front of her eyes.

And then she was fucking terrified.

Her breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounded through her chest like she'd just run ten miles. She didn't even know she was crying until she saw the tears hit the counter.

_Am I about to die? Pass out? Is my heart about to stop? _

"Mamaaaa," she called out, when she could draw enough air. "Mama!"

She saw the hallway light come on as she crumpled to the kitchen floor.

"Santana? What's happening, baby?" her mother asked, sweeping into the kitchen and crouching down to take Santana into her arms. "Ahhhh," she said in dismay as she felt the damp fabric of Santana's pajamas. "You're soaked."

Santana flailed her hands at the front of her mother's nightgown and gripped it, white-knuckled.

Her mother put her hands beneath Santana's armpits and yanked her to her feet. Santana pressed her face into her mother's shoulder, only dimly aware that they were walking. She recognized the feel of the fringe and knots that lined the edges of the living room rug against her bare feet, then the soft plush of the rug itself, and then nothing, as her mother picked her up and deposited her onto the couch.

She doubled over, hugging her own torso and pressing her head into her thighs.

"Sit up, baby, shhhh," her mother said, "Sit up and look at me."

Santana couldn't do it. Her body was rigid, not listening to her. She whimpered as another round of shuddering overcame her. It was like it started at her core and shook her from the inside out.

"SANTANA LUISA LOPEZ. SIT. UP. RIGHT NOW."

The gasping stopped, just for a second, and Santana was startled back into control over her body just long enough to obey this time. Her mother pulled Santana's face into her chest and held her tight. Santana hugged her elbows into her sides and pressed against her mother's body; it seemed to quell the shaking.

"Listen to me, baby, listen. As soon as you start breathing more slowly you're gonna feel better, okay? Take a deep breath in with me, ready? Breathe in, one. . . two . . . three. Breathe out, one . . .two . . .three."

Her mother repeated the intonation over and over, and put her fingers on Santana's chin. She tilted her gaze upwards. "Look at my neck. Look, see? See my pulse? Watch it. Nice and slow. That's how yours needs to be, pumpkin. Breathe in, one . . . two. . . three."

Santana had no idea how long she sat there, pressed against her mother, watching the veins pulse in her neck, listening to her voice telling her to breathe. It felt like every time she started to think it was over, her body would shudder again, like an aftershock.

And when it finally subsided, it happened as fast as it came on. The weird sense of unreality persisted, but the shaking stopped and her insides felt still, and cool. The clenched muscles of her arms and stomach relaxed, little by little.

"Have you had a panic attack before, mi chiquitita?" her mother asked quietly.

Santana sniffled. "No," she whispered.

"Okay. You're okay. It doesn't hurt you, baby. It feels like it will, but it won't. Your mama used to get them all the time in school."

Santana laid her head against her mother's chest, stunned and exhausted.

"I'm gonna put the TV on, okay? It's good to have a distraction. I'll find us something funny."

Santana closed her eyes, and her mother kept one arm around her as she flipped channels.

"So do you want to tell your mama what has you so upset?" her mother asked quietly, after a few minutes.

And Santana thought about it. She thought about blurting it out.

_It's Brittany._

Maybe if she tightened up her stomach muscles and tried to force out the words like she was throwing up, maybe it would finally just come out and she would never have to fucking go through this again. Maybe the murderous anticipation being over was the most important thing.

But the thought of losing her mother's touch and her sympathy right at this moment, of having to defend herself in her present state . . . it was too much to bear.

"No. I don't know," she croaked, and pressed her cheek against her mother's chest.

**Monday, June 27 / 8:50pm**

Kurt rejoined Rachel on the big, comfy couch in his family room, balancing a giant tub of popcorn and a pair of virgin cosmopolitans.

"Thank you," Rachel smiled up at him, cradling the giant plastic martini glass with both hands.

Kurt tapped the edge of her glass with his and reached for the remote. They were about halfway through their viewing of The Sound of Music on Blu-Ray – a birthday gift from Mercedes.

"Wait," Rachel said, putting her hand over his. "Before we put the movie back on – I wanted to talk to you about something. Something . . . kind of serious."

Kurt set down the remote and rolled his head to the side against the back of the couch to look at Rachel. "I suspected as much. I knew something had to be wrong when you let me take Liesl's part in 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen.' Not to mention that you haven't intentionally spent a night away from Quinn in weeks."

"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Quinn, I mean."

"Oh no, don't tell me there's trouble," he said, sitting up. "Rachel, you're my only hope of fulfilling my dream of being the maid of honor in a lesbian wedding."

"We were. . . harassed. On Saturday morning."

Kurt closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Rachel. Are you okay?"

"Yes. Physically, I mean, yes."

"Was it just the two of you? Were Britt and Santana there?"

"It was just the two of us. Although, Santana and Brittany have had an incident recently as well. We're all okay but we're all a little, um, rattled. I was hoping you'd have some words of wisdom on dealing with all of this."

"I hate to say it Rachel, but you may have to get used to it as long as you live in Lima. I mean, just last week some meathead in a WWF t-shirt threw my fedora in the fountain at the mall. That kind of pointless mean-spiritedness is rampant here."

"I know," Rachel said pensively. "That's exactly what worries me. The fact that it could happen again, at any moment. Santana is just taking a few fragile steps towards self-acceptance, and Brittany is terrible at playing it cool in public. But, mostly I'm worried about Quinn."

"I can see why. Ms. Fabray is certainly not someone who is used to garnering disapproving commentary from strangers. Well, except for a span of a few months a year and a half ago, perhaps."

"Kurt, I feel like she's never happy anymore. The only time is when it's just the two of us, and even then, it isn't the same. She told me not long ago that spending time as a couple with Santana and Brittany made up some of the best nights of her life. Now, it seems like she can't stand to be around them. She's tense, she's cranky. She couldn't even relax and be herself at Pride in a city where she knew nobody but us. When this incident occurred, with this horribly creepy guy talking about how God didn't make us to love each other that way, it was like the universe painted a bullseye on Quinn's most vulnerable spot, and then kicked."

"Again Rachel, I hate to be the bearer of negativity, but I'm not sure what you can do about it. You can be there for Quinn, but you can't work through her issues for her."

"I can't do nothing, either."

"Could you, I don't know, suggest a therapist? Aren't you well-connected in that regard?"

Rachel nodded. "I could. Quinn would never go for it, though. For one thing, she would have to tell her mother she wanted to go. Oh hey Kurt, wait – I think I have an idea."

**Wednesday, June 29, 2011 3:15pm**

A few days, a few phone calls, and just a little bit of coercive behavior later, Rachel sat primly in the waiting room of her therapist, Dr. Goldfarb. Her stomach was a roiling cauldron of nerves, almost enough to eclipse how pleased with herself she was for organizing this day.

Quinn, predictably, had been the hardest to convince. Rachel wasn't proud of the fact that she had withheld an orgasm to get her here, but was comfortable with the conclusion that the ends in this case justified the means.

Santana had been surprisingly receptive once Brittany was onboard, accepting with a "Whatever, it's only 45 minutes, right?" Convincing Brittany was just a matter of playing on her concern for Santana's well-being after recent unpleasantness.

Anyway, now, for better or for worse, here they were.

Dr. Goldfarb, who had only reluctantly agreed to this unconventional session due to Rachel's mercilessly insistent expressions of concern, opened the door.

"Come in, ladies," he said with a smile.

They went around and introduced themselves, except for Rachel, who sat tall and smiling, attempting to project an image as a beacon of experience.

"So," he began, "I understand from Rachel that the four of you have recently had some difficulty with people in public. People have recognized that perhaps you were in same-sex relationships, and reacted negatively. Would anyone like to begin talking about that?"

Santana and Brittany looked at each other, and quickly looked away.

Quinn stared at the wall above his head.

Rachel decided that, as the instigator of the afternoon, she should take the lead. She described in a few sentences the incident she and Quinn had faced last weekend.

"I wasn't that upset," she concluded. "I was angry and, for a moment, concerned for our physical well-being. But my primary concern. . . well, it was for Quinn."

"So the things this stranger was saying didn't upset you personally, Rachel?"

"I've been exposed to homophobia all my life. It was a shock, yes, to have it directed at me personally. But I was worried about Quinn. Because of the things he was saying. "

"Quinn, would you like to respond to that?" he asked gently.

"I . . . appreciate Rachel's concern," Quinn offered.

"Do you think that concern is valid?"

Quinn kept her face stony as she shrugged. "All the guy did was say out loud what tons of people around me are thinking."

"What people, Quinn?"

"Everyone at my church. Tons of people in general. Half the country."

"In your view, half of the country is like that man?"

"To a degree," Quinn nodded. "Maybe only a few people act on it, but it was a reminder how everybody feels about gay people."

"It's not true, Quinn," Rachel disagreed. "That man was off in the head. He wasn't normal."

"The only thing abnormal was his lack of self-censorship."

"Santana and Brittany," the therapist interrupted, "Do you agree with Quinn? I understand that you were also recently the victims of a verbal assault."

"A verbal assault with beer," Brittany clarified.

"Santana, can you talk about that a little?"

Santana, who had been slouching behind a plush throw pillow, sat up a little straighter. She glanced at Brittany, who nodded encouragingly.

"The guy who bothered us totally wasn't normal, either. He was a Neanderthal," she said. "I was worked up at the time, but next time I'll spray the asshole with mace and get on with my life."

Dr. Goldfarb chuckled. "Well that would certainly deal with the immediate situation. What about how you feel now, when you remember it?"

"I'm pissed."

"Go on."

"But it makes me feel better."

"Being angry?"

"Yeah, like, it was just some douchebag redneck in a shitty car. I'll never see him again. That's not the crap I'm afraid of, that's a freaking cakewalk."

"What crap are you afraid of?"

Santana's slight smirk faded. She affected an annoyed shrug. "I don't know."

"She's afraid of people at school. And her family. She wakes up all upset about her mom, and stuff."

"Britt. . ." Santana warned, shaking her head.

"Santana, these are the kinds of things we're here to talk about," the therapist smiled. "Can we talk about your mother?"

"Like, about what?"

"Like, how she would feel if she knew about your relationship with Brittany."

"It's . . . hard to say," Santana said. "I mean, she's Catholic. She goes to mass, but thinks it's mostly bullshit. She once said the Pope looked like a skinnier Jabba the Hut. Oh, and she likes Lady Gaga," she added hopefully.

He laughed. "Okay. Let's talk about you for a minute, Brittany. How did the incident make you feel?"

"Sad."

"Why?"

"Because it's sad. The way people have to try so hard to make other people feel bad. I don't get it. Like, if he thought we were hot, why wouldn't he be nice to us?"

"So naïve," Quinn muttered under her breath.

"Quinn?" he asked.

"She expects people to be nice. People aren't nice."

"My observation is that you tend to make generalizations, Quinn, and so far they've been extremely negative. I'd like you to see if, just for the duration of our session, you can think not necessarily more positively, but more realistically."

Quinn said nothing, responding by finding another spot on the wall to hold her fascination.

"Now, since we're here as a group of friends, I'd like to try some role-playing exercises."

Rachel's face brightened and she clapped her hands in delight.

"Santana, let's start with you. Why don't you pretend to be your mother? And – Rachel, please put your hand down, I'd like to cast Brittany in the role of Santana."

"Yes!" Brittany celebrated. "Okay, what do I do?"

"Think about what you would say if you were Santana in a situation where you were about to come out to her mother."

"Mrs. Lopez, I'm gay," Brittany said sincerely.

"Brittany remember, you're supposed to be Santana. You would call her 'mom'."

"Sorry. Mom, I'm gay."

"Okay, that's not how I would say it at all," Santana said, throwing up her hands.

"Mom, I'm in love with Brittany," Brittany tried again. "Is that better?"

"Too nice," Rachel added helpfully. "When Santana feels insecure she has false bravado."

"Shove it up your ass, Berry."

"See?"

"Okay, let's focus, ladies," the doctor interrupted. "Santana, what does your mother say in response?"

Santana sat up straight, crossed her legs, and tossed her hair over her shoulders.

"What is this?" she said, affecting an accent and gesticulating with her hands. "What is this you're telling me?"

"Mom, I'm telling you I want to marry Brittany."

Rachel and Santana both smiled.

"You're out of character," Quinn sighed.

"This is not who I raised you to be, chiquita," Santana resumed. "I raised you to be a strong, successful Hispanic-American woman. Already you're a woman and a minority, you don't need another disadvantage in your life."

"But mom," Brittany said, "I am being who you raised. I'm being honest and proud. How can I be a woman leader in the world if I'm not honest with people?"

"People won't respect you if you're like this."

"People will respect me for the stuff I do, because I'm talented and smart and really hot," Brittany said.

"Santana would say 'hot' first," Rachel suggested.

Quinn elbowed her in the arm.

Santana slouched back down into the couch. "I have no freaking clue what she would say to that," she said. "That's the problem."

"That's okay, Santana. That was very good, ladies," the therapist said. "Well done."

Rachel and Quinn pretended not to notice as Santana dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"Can we go next?" Rachel asked. "I can do an excellent interpretation of Judy Fabray."

"No thanks," said Quinn. "I'm never going to tell her, so that would be pointless."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I've known her for 17 years and none of you have. In fact, I'll make the roleplay quick – she would say, 'What? I didn't hear you. Tell me about your new boyfriend.'"

"Quinn, I think you're underestim—" Rachel started.

"There is nothing to discuss, Rachel. You don't know her. And anyway, you're a hypocrite. You're hiding our relationship from your gay fathers."

"I told you, I don't think it's practical to tell them until we're ready to come out as a couple. I think we should focus on small, attainable goals, like being out in Glee Club, for example."

"Maybe you should back off about my mother, then."

"I'm not saying you should tell her tomorrow, Quinn, but we can look toward the future, can't we?"

"Rachel," Dr. Goldfarb said gently, "If you let Quinn decide on the steps for herself, you might find that she's more responsive to your ideas."

Rachel nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry, Quinn, I didn't mean to pressure you." Her stomach sank, as there didn't seem to be much forgiveness in Quinn's eyes.

"I'd like to leave the four of you with some parting observations," Dr. Goldfarb continued. "You all have certain fears. This is natural and normal. What I'd like you all to keep in mind is that you have a lot of things working in your favor, too. For one, you have each other. And among you, you have several adults who are either already supportive, like Brittany's mother and your Glee Club director, or likely to be supportive when you decide to tell them, like Rachel's fathers.

My parting advice is this: use the resources you have. Support each other. And come back and talk with me if you feel that I can be of assistance."

"Thank you, Dr. Goldfarb," Rachel said with a grateful smile as she followed Brittany and Santana out of the room.

"Quinn, may I have a word?" the doctor asked as the girls filed out.

Quinn thought of ignoring him entirely but ultimately didn't have the nerve.

"Quinn, this is a card with the contact information for my colleague, Dr. Hector Reese. He specializes in LGBT counseling. I'd like for you to see him, if that's possible for you."

"Oh, so I'm the remedial case in the group?" Quinn asked. She eyed the card in his hand. "Thanks, but I'm not doing that."

He smiled and tucked it into her hand. "Take it in case you change your mind."

Brittany and Santana drove home together. They didn't talk and didn't put on music, and Santana wasn't even screaming and honking her horn, so it was quiet and kind of nice. Santana stared ahead at the road, absently squeezing and releasing the steering wheel.

Brittany was in a really good mood.

"That was totally fun," she said.

"You thought therapy was fun? Britt, you're truly kind of weird."

"I know, but, I was proud of you."

"Why?"

"Because you didn't just get mad or make fun of it. You talked about your mom and your feelings. "

Santana thought for a minute. "I don't know, I guess if something is going to make me feel better I'll try it, even if it is Berry's idea."

"Well, I think you've come so far, Santana. And just so you know, whenever you're ready to tell your mother or whoever, we're all gonna be right there next to you. Just like today. I'll make sure of it, okay?"

Santana took her right hand off the steering wheel and set her forearm on the center console, palm up. Brittany slid her hand into Santana's and they rode like that the rest of the way home.

**Saturday, June 25 / 11:22am**

"Have you ever gone before?" Quinn asked Rachel as they sorted rainbow-colored fliers on the counter at the Fedex Kinkos.

"To Pride?" Rachel asked, surprised. "Sure, a few times. I was even in it once, when I was a baby. My dads took me on the float sponsored by the clinic that matched them with Shelby."

Quinn nodded and smiled weakly.

"I can't believe I've never shown you the pictures," Rachel continued cheerfully. "Apparently I bonded with multiple drag queens. There's one photo where I'm trying to steal a microphone from a trio of Chers."

"Of course there is," Quinn said. "Okay, this stack is done," she sighed, holding up a series of brightly colored pages advertising free health clinics in Lima, Columbus, and Toledo. Smiling same-sex couples stared out from the pages. "I'll go make the copies."

"Thanks, Quinn," Rachel smiled, bumping her hip sideways against Quinn's. "I'm almost done, too."

Quinn headed to the color copier, smiling to herself over the idea of baby Rachel thriving among all of that fabulousness.

"How do you even work?" she muttered at the copier under her breath. She liked to think she was a fairly intelligent person, but figuring out its touch screen wasn't proving to be intuitive. She set the pages on top of the machine and resigned herself to reading the posted instructions on the front panel.

"Excuse me," a male voice said from just over her shoulder.

Quinn stood up and turned around, relieved, expecting to see someone in a purple Kinkos shirt arriving to rescue her from her incompetence.

Instead, she found herself face to face with a pudgy man around 35 in a white collared shirt, with curly brown hair and a receding hairline.

"Hello," he said, smiling briefly without his eyes. "I need to ask you a question."

Well, if he needs instructions on using the copier, he'll need to move along, she thought.

But he was concerned with something else entirely. He took another step forward and Quinn found herself suddenly uncomfortable. Was it on purpose that he'd just moved within arm's reach? She shivered.

"Is that homosexual propaganda that I see over there?" he asked, gesturing over Quinn's shoulder to the flyers she had left on top of the copy machine.

Quinn's blood went cold.

"Uhh," she replied. "Prop—propaganda?"

"Material meant to further a social or political agenda." He leaned forward almost – but not quite—imperceptibly.

"I know what it is," Quinn said, her voice quivering. He seemed to want to pin her between himself and the copy machine. She slid along the machine to her right and stepped past him. Rachel met her a few steps away, grasping her hands.

"Quinn, what's going on? Do you know this man?"

"No," Quinn whispered, her eyes wide. "He just came up to me."

And then he was right behind Quinn, face to face with Rachel.

"I hope this is sisterly love that I'm seeing between the two of you," he said. "Because God did not create young ladies to love each other in a homosexual way."

"Why don't you mind your own business?" Rachel challenged, stepping out from behind Quinn.

"Oh," he smiled. "But you _are_ my business."

He was at least eight inches taller than Rachel, and Quinn did not like the looks of this at all. There was something weird in this guy's eyes, something vacant but also menacing. She needed to get Rachel away from him and out of here, but she was just standing. Why wasn't she _doing_ anything?

"All God's children deserve forgiveness," the man continued. "The question is, are you willing to ask for it with your words and your actions?"

"You need to leave us alone," Rachel countered. "I have the ACLU on speed dial."

The man smiled more broadly this time, seeming to be genuinely mirthful. He held his palms out to his sides. "The institutions of man don't decide what's right and wrong. You young ladies may not want to hear what I have to say, but it doesn't make it untrue."

"Is there a problem here?" A middle-aged clerk stepped toward Quinn and Rachel.

"There certainly is," Rachel replied. "This man is harassing my girlfriend and me."

"Do I need to call someone, here?" the clerk asked. "Or are you going to leave these two underage females alone?"

"I'll pray for you," the man said quickly, looking into Quinn's eyes, and headed for the door.

"Thank you," Rachel told the clerk gratefully, and enveloped Quinn in a hug. "Sweetie, you're shaking."

Quinn lifted her hands to Rachel's sides, but didn't hug her back.

"It's okay, Quinn. He's gone, he's gone. Okay," she said decisively, "We're going to get out of here, okay? We can make the copies in Columbus tomorrow morning."

Quinn turned, fighting back nausea, and started for the copy machine where she'd left her papers.

"He's not gone," she said in a whisper, stopping in her tracks. Outside on the sidewalk, the man stood smoking a cigarette. "He's waiting for us."

"Okay, we need to call someone," Rachel said. "The police?"

"Oh God. No, I can't deal with that," Quinn said. "Can your dads . . ."

Rachel shook her head. "They're in Columbus already."

"Umm," Quinn said, thinking. "Call Puck."

"Okay," Rachel nodded, and dialed her phone.

Fifteen minutes later, Puck, Lauren, and Finn burst through the Kinkos door.

"Where is he?" Puck demanded of the girls. "I'll break his nose and happily go back to juvie."

"Ladies first, Puckerman," Lauren said, cracking her knuckles.

"He's gone," Rachel said quietly. "At least, he's been out of view for the last five minutes."

"Are you guys okay?" Finn asked. The look of worry on his face made Rachel's heart flutter.

"Yes," Quinn nodded.

"Yeah, we're fine. Just a little shaken. I don't think violence is necessary, Noah, he didn't hurt us. He didn't even really threaten to do-"

"Yes he did," Quinn cut her off. "It was in his demeanor."

"We're gonna drive around and see if we can see him," Puck said. "A grown dude intimidating a couple of high school girls like that? That ain't all right and he needs to be shown."

Quinn wrapped her arms around Puck. "It's okay, Noah. Thank you, but can you just take us home, please?"

The trio formed a perimeter around Rachel and Quinn, Lauren in the lead and the boys behind them at either side. There was no sign of the guy.

Lauren had driven, so Finn wedged himself into the back seat, scrunched up awkwardly next to Rachel. He was trying not to touch her with his thigh, but it was pretty much impossible, which was a fact that the corner of Quinn's eye seemed to have noticed. Rachel had never tried harder to make herself into a flat line.

"You guys let me know if you see him," Puck said as they pulled out of the parking lot, but the drive was incident-free.

When they got to Quinn's house, Rachel walked her to the door while Lauren idled at the curb.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"

"I want to be alone."

"You'll call me later, right?"

"Yes."

Rachel leaned in for a kiss. Quinn, glancing at their audience only twenty feet away, redirected her into a hug.

Rachel trudged back down the sidewalk, glancing back over her shoulder, but Quinn had already gone back inside.

"Hey, so, does anyone want to go to The Lima Bean?" Finn asked as Rachel got back into the car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

><p><strong>Monday, June 13, 2011  8:37am**

Rachel, Quinn, and Brittany knew it was Santana's car roaring toward them by the sheer speed with which it was approaching.

"Finally," Quinn sighed, checking her watch yet again as the hum of the motor grew lower. It was 8:37.

They were waiting beside Quinn's car in her driveway, Brittany sipping one of the two coffees she held in her hands, Quinn leaning against the driver's side door, arms crossed over her chest. Rachel paced the length of the car and back, scribbling on a clipboard.

"I do some of my best brainstorming during unplanned down time," she had explained to Brittany approximately six minutes ago. "I once outlined an entire English paper while standing behind a coupon lady at Walgreens."

"You're late," Quinn said as Santana slammed her car door and grabbed the coffee Brittany had picked up for her.

"You bitches be lucky I showed at all," she rasped from behind gigantic sunglasses. "I wasn't planning on it, but _some_one's mother told my parents about it. Now they won't shut up about how great it is that I'm 'giving back.'" She punctuated the last two words with air quotes.

"It is great, though," Brittany said with a small smile, elbowing her.

"Whatever. I'm not sure what a bunch of snot-nosed little brats have ever given me besides this headache from waking up so early."

"Santana, you get up two hours earlier than this for school. What's the big deal?" Quinn asked.

"It's summer, Q. Teenagers are genetically incapable of functioning this early from June to September," Santana said as she crossed in front of the car to the passenger side door. "Why do you think we have summers off?"

"Um, Santana?" Rachel said, looking up from her clipboard. "I was going to sit there," she said, indicating toward the front passenger side seat with her pen.

"No, I have to ride shotgun," Santana informed her. "My dress will get wrinkled if I have to bunch up in the back."

"I hope you realize that every boy over the age of eight is going to be trying to look up that dress all day," Rachel grumbled as she took a seat in the back next to Brittany.

"How do you think I plan to keep them from misbehaving?"

"Also, that's heterosexist, Rachel," Brittany added.

Santana smirked and sipped her coffee as Quinn backed out of the driveway.

…..

Quinn's nerves built up steadily as she drove. Why she was apprehensive was beyond her; she was usually comfortable at churches, and she was confident that she was good with kids. It was probably her first day at Ohio State tomorrow that she was truly nervous about.

It wasn't really that she was afraid they'd know at the Bible School that she was dating Rachel. Having volunteered there last summer, Rachel already knew that all high school volunteers were discouraged from dating each other, which meant they would have had to hide that part anyway. (Although, she was making silent bets with herself over how long it would take before the kids would catch Santana and Brittany making out somewhere and they'd be asked to leave.)

Rachel enthusiastically played tour guide, complete with backwards walking, as they made their way toward the school building from the parking lot.

"During the school year this is a parochial middle school, as well as a Sunday school on the weekends. In the summer they open it up to the community. They call it Bible School, but it's really more like free summer day care. It's such an important resource for parents who can't afford other places, so you guys, we're helping out a really great cause.

"Most of the kids get here between 8:30 and 9," she explained as they approached the door. "Then we start activities, which can include Bible study, reading or story time depending on the age level, physical fitness, arts and crafts, or music. There's also morning snack, lunch, afternoon snack, and nap time. "

"That sounds busier than a day in high school," Quinn remarked warily.

Rachel nodded, her eyes wide. "Totally. It's organized chaos, which is why they need us. It's just starting, so today it'll probably be more chaos than organized, but things should settle down by next week. We'll be here until lunch and then another group of volunteers will take our place for the afternoon half."

"Now just remember," she concluded as they reached the entrance. "You're here to help the counselors, but more than that you're here to make sure the kids are safe and happy."

"Ummm, whose job is it to keep us safe and happy?" Santana muttered in dismay as Rachel opened the double doors into the roar of the multi-purpose room.

Rachel led them on a serpentine path among tables crowded with their small, loud charges toward the back wall. Here, an army of counselors in bright yellow t-shirts were passing stacks of paper among themselves, looking more than a little crazed.

"Hello Pastor Mitchell," Rachel said cheerfully to a really tan guy in a tie-dyed shirt who looked entirely too young to be a pastor.

"Rachel!" he exclaimed, and hugged her. "Great to have you back this year!"

Rachel dutifully introduced everyone, but before the words were even out of her mouth Pastor Mitchell was already handing her a stack of sheets of perforated cardboard.

"Can you guys start with nametags? We need to get the kids identified before we lose anyone." He reached back to the table behind him and dropped a box of lanyards and wide-tip sharpies into Santana's arms. "Mrs. Mills has the class lists, and your hats are in a box in the music room. Have fun!"

He clapped Rachel on the back and turned his attention back to the group of counselors.

"Lanyards?" Santana asked, reaching into the box and holding up its contents skeptically. "Won't they try to strangle each other with these things?"

"Santana, they're kids, not demons," Quinn said.

"Same thing," she shrugged. "Also, hats? What is that about, Berry, because I did not agree to accessorization."

Rachel was already surveying the room, her lips pressed firmly together. "Hats to identify us as volunteers; I'll get them in a second," she said absently, then turned back to the group. "Okay, so I realize you're all still adjusting, based on the looks of horror on your faces, but we're going to have to split up to get the nametags done. Everyone take one corner of the room and work your way inward. We'll meet in the middle.

"Ladies," she said, putting her free hand on Brittany's shoulder, "Good luck."

…..

By the time every child in the room had a nametag with his or her actual given name written legibly on it, encased in plastic and hanging around his or her neck, their first hour and a half was over.

"I'm not sure what the point of that was," Quinn said in half-amusement as they reconvened at the entrance to the kitchen. "By the end of the day those nametags will be illegible. They'll be covered in fingerprints or food."

"Or worse," Santana added.

"Your hair's messed up," Brittany said to Santana, batting at the wisps that hung in her face from beneath her "TSBS Volunteer" baseball cap.

"I'm aware," Santana said, scowling. "Do you see that girl over there with the sweet little purple bow in her hair? She kept stealing my freaking hat," Santana explained, glowering and adjusting it on her head self-consciously.

"She's just a little kid," Brittany reassured her. "Maybe she liked your hair."

"As a weapon, maybe. She used a handful of it to lower my head to the table so she could spell her name in my face."

"Were you not nice to her?"

"Why would I be nice to her? She was a little shit."

A little boy of six or seven sitting at the table next to them was listening with increasingly widening eyes. At Santana's last sentence, he appeared ready to explode.

"PASTOR LUKE!" he bellowed, "PASTOR LUKE, she said the s-word!" He stood on the bench of the cafeteria table, waving his arms and pointing at Santana.

"What the-?" Santana said, brow furrowing.

Glaring at Santana, Rachel strode to the little boy's side. "Cristofer, get down from there."

Cristofer, clearly recognizing Rachel, frowned and stepped down from the bench. "But Miss Rachel, she said the s-word!"

Rachel put her hands on her hips. "That doesn't mean we can use our outside voices, or do things that aren't safe."

"But—"

"And I'm sure you remember how we feel about tattling. Now you sit down, please," Rachel continued. "Very good, thank you. Now Miss Santana will apologize for using that naughty word."

"Like hell."

"SHE – NOW SHE SAID THE H-WORD!" Cristofer sputtered in disbelief, leaping to his feet again.

"Santana!" Rachel exclaimed.

"I'm telling Pastor Luke," he said, swinging his legs over the bench and starting resolutely toward the gathering of counselors a few tables away. "You can't stop me!" he challenged, looking back over his shoulder.

Rachel looked at Santana pleadingly, trying to silently convey something like "Please, please do not get kicked out less than two hours after I brought you here."

Rachel soon realized she should have been more specific as to how, exactly, to accomplish that, because what Santana apparently understood was more like "please take off running down the aisle after this seven-year-old boy."

"No running!" Rachel shouted futilely. "Santana! No tackling the children!"

She didn't tackle him, not exactly, but Santana brought Cristofer back by the waist, holding him against her hip as he kicked his legs in vain.

"Fine. I'm sorry, okay?" she exclaimed as she set him squarely back in his seat. "God!"

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," he called after her as she walked back toward Quinn, Rachel, and Brittany.

"I fucking hate that kid," she muttered under her breath. Brittany clamped a hand over Santana's mouth.

"Maybe Santana's potty mouth is going to be a little cleaner by the end of this summer," Quinn commented with a smile.

…..

"Now they're yelling at each other in Spanish," Brittany reported to Rachel as they watched Santana and Cristofer scream at each other over a crate of chocolate milk that she was supposed to be distributing for morning snack.

"Looks like Santana might have to learn to curse in a third language," Rachel sighed, as one of the counselors broke up the fight.

As Rachel and Brittany finished handing out granola bars, Santana approached in a huff.

"I switched my swearing to Spanish to get around the profanity police, but he fucking understood it. These have to be the most annoying kids ever," she said, disgusted. "Are they going to be like this all summer?"

"They're actually really sweet," Quinn said, coming over to pack up the leftover chocolate milk cartons. "Your problem is that your conflict resolution skills are on the same level as a seven year old boy's."

"Oh suck it, Fabray."

Quinn pressed her lips together and nodded. "No, really. I suddenly have new perspective on the last few years of our relationship."

Pastor Mitchell approached, eager to get the children occupied as the post-snack spike in their blood sugar took effect. "Okay, we're ready for helpers for morning activities," he said, reading from his notepad. "Who wants to help supervise kickball on the playground?"

"Oooh, me, me!" Brittany volunteered, her hand shooting into the air so emphatically it brought the rest of her body with it. "I rule at kickball."

"Just to be clear, you're not actually playing kickball, though," he clarified to Brittany gently. "You roll the ball for them, and help them pick teams, stuff like that."

"I'm on it, coach!" she agreed, taking the ball from him.

"All right, it's table four over there with Counselor Greg," he said as she bounded away. "Okay, and I need one for story time. How about you?" he asked, looking at Santana. "That's Cristofer's group, and I did notice that you're already becoming friends," he said with a wink.

Santana slumped her shoulders.

"The library is the third door on the left down that corridor," he gestured. "Counselor Sarah is already there, so she'll help you get started."

"Can't I be in charge of nap time?" Santana asked over her shoulder as she started toward the library.

"Be careful what you volunteer for – that's harder than you think," he cautioned.

"Okay, aaaand," he said, turning his attention to Rachel and Quinn. "Can you two cover the arts and crafts room? That's our little ones, so they need some extra hands."

"Absolutely!" Rachel replied. She took Quinn's hand and led her down the hallway toward the art room. "I love working with the kindergartners. So little and cute. You'll fall in love," she beamed, squeezing Quinn's hand gently.

…..

"We're not doing anything fancy for the first day," Counselor Janet told Quinn and Rachel as she handed them stapled stacks of black and white cartoons. "No paint, no glue, no scissors, and therefore hopefully no injuries." Turning to the class, she announced, "I need a volunteer from each table to come up and get a bowl of crayons!"

Rachel and Quinn smiled as nearly every hand flew into the air.

"Then Miss Rachel and Miss Quinn are going to come around and ask if you want to color dinosaurs or creatures of the sea, so I want everyone to start thinking about that!"

"Arts and crafts is all about copious positive reinforcement," Rachel whispered to Quinn a few minutes later, as they strolled among the tables ringed by knee-high benches. "I've learned you have to tell them their creations are beautiful, even if their color choices are lackluster."

"I know how to talk to kids, Rachel," Quinn assured her.

"Oh no," Rachel said, grabbing Quinn's forearm in alarm. "Crier – 10 o'clock!"

Rachel pointed to the front of the room, where a little girl with an adorably messy tangle of dark, curly hair sat staring at the floor, her nose turning redder by the second.

"It's go time," Rachel said, starting toward the girl.

"Wait, Rachel," Quinn said, grabbing Rachel's hand to hold her back. "Look at her – she's probably scared. If we both come at her together she'll be totally overwhelmed."

"Perhaps you're right," Rachel said, frowning. "Alternate suggestions?"

"I'll go," Quinn said. She nodded once at Rachel and left her side.

She approached the girl quietly. "Hey Dottie," she said, squatting down to meet her at eye-level. "I'm Miss Quinn."

Quinn waited as Dottie lifted her gaze.

"Do you remember me from this morning when we did your name tag?"

Dottie nodded sadly.

"I like your sea turtle," Quinn said, pointing to the half-shaded cartoon the little girl had been working on. "Green is one of my favorite colors, how about you?"

The little girl's face contorted into a frown. "I want to go hooome!"

They weren't supposed to touch the kids unless they had to. Quinn decided this was an emergency. She held out her arms and Dottie attached herself like Velcro.

Quinn felt hot teardrops dampening her shoulder. "Hey, it's okay," she said gently, sliding her hand reassuringly up and down the little girl's back. "Come on, let's go sit over here for a minute."

Quinn grabbed her purse from the front desk and carried Dottie to the supplies area, an offshoot of the main room, away from the din of the class. Still holding the girl in her arms, she sat down on the floor.

"Hey, look what I have," she said, rummaging in her purse and coming up with a mostly-empty bag of gummy bears. "Do you like these?"

Dottie sniffled, then nodded.

"I got them when I went to the movies the other day. Would you like some?"

Dottie nodded again.

"Okay, hold out your hand."

This was also entirely against the rules, Quinn was sure. But if Dottie were diabetic or had food allergies, she would be wearing a brightly colored wristband that said so. And except in cases of health, candy was too good a problem solver to be off-limits.

"How about a green one?"

Dottie held out her hand and said "thank you," as Quinn deposited the candy into her palm.

"Are your mom and dad at work, Dottie?" she asked

She nodded once more. "My mommy says she has to go to works so she has some money to buy toys for me and my brother," she sniffled.

Quinn laughed and vowed to file that one away for future use. "Oh yeah? What kind of toys?" she asked.

…..

"Quit staring at me."

"You're supposed to be helping pass out lunches, Santa."

"I'm off the clock, Frodo. And it's SanTANa."

"Miss Rachel always helps pass out lunches, so we get them faster."

"Oh really? Well why don't you go bother her? I think she's out playing in traffic, so why don't you check there first?"

"You're mean."

"You're . . . short." The fact that this boy was only 7 was seriously cramping her style.

"Good one," Cristofer said, sticking out his tongue.

As Santana scanned the windows impatiently, looking for Brittany to come back from the playground, Quinn and Rachel emerged from the long hallway of classrooms. Rachel, just as Cristofer said, disappeared into the kitchen to help with distributing lunches. Quinn joined Santana at the counselors' table.

"What is that?" Santana said, pointing to the growth sprouting from Quinn's side.

"She's not a 'what,' she's a 'who,'" Quinn said. "Dottie, this is Miss Santana. Can you say hi?"

Dottie lifted her head from Quinn's shoulder and sniffled. "Hi," she said.

"Charming," Santana said. "You know you have to leave her here, right? Cause if this is some sort of replacing your bastard child thing, I refuse to be a party to it."

"Tactful," Quinn said. "It has nothing to do with that. She's homesick."

"Yeah, well, me too. When do we get to leave?"

"Quinn, I have her lunch," Rachel called out, and Quinn set Dottie down. The little girl ran toward her plate full of macaroni and cheese.

"See you on Wednesday!" Quinn called after her, as Dottie turned around and waved.

Santana rolled her eyes. At least Brittany was finally back. She was also muddier than all of her students combined.

"What the hell happened to you?" Santana asked, as Brittany approached with a smile.

"You can't be afraid to put your body on the line for the game, Santana," she said solemnly.

"Right. Okay, are we done, Berry?" Santana asked, thoroughly pissed off that everyone was having a good time at this place.

Rachel only put her index finger to her lips, as a hush came over the room. Santana realized it was because one of the priests or whatever was going up on the stage at the front of the room. Great, because she so wanted to have to wait through a fucking speech before she could go.

She zoned out while he welcomed back all the little shit heads for another awesome summer and droned on about how God loved them. It was kind of hard to daydream the way she usually did, though, because it really felt too weird to think about sex among all these kids. She shifted her weight back and forth as the bishop or whatever started the Lord's Prayer. Ugh, not this one – she had to say like thirty of these things every time she went to confession.

Berry was standing with her hands folded and her head bowed. Couldn't you get in trouble for pretending to love Jesus?

Brittany was mumbling the words to the prayer on about a half-second delay.

Santana glanced reluctantly at Quinn, sort of afraid she was going to catch her in the middle of some kind of rapturous state of Jesus-loving that she had no desire to witness. Quinn, however, was fixated on her new pet rug rat, who was sitting at the table with her hands pressed together, reciting the words of the prayer.

Even Santana was forced to admit it – it was sort of adorable. Still, she would be remiss to not take enough mental notes to be able to taunt Quinn about it later.

_Oh, shit. Wait a second_, Santana thought, as she looked back over at Quinn. Oh, son of a bitch – was she crying?

On a closer look there was no mistaking it – she was keeping it under wraps in that Quinn Fabray way where you could barely tell except that her mouth curled down at the corners and her eyelashes clumped together with tears she wouldn't let hit her cheeks.

_Okay, okay. I'm going to look away for a minute and then she'll be done. _

Santana examined her shoes for a few seconda and then looked back up.

Shit. Quinn's shoulders heaved. Okay, this shit was getting real. Why the hell did she have to be the one who noticed it?

Santana leaned forward to look hopefully at Rachel, who clearly hadn't noticed that anything was amiss. She glanced at Brittany, who noticed Santana looking at her, and smiled.

They were oblivious. Did this mean she had to say something? To Quinn? To Rachel?

As the prayer came to an end, Quinn turned away from her friends and pretended to scratch her eyebrow. Santana tried to send a telepathic message to Rachel over the slow-rising roar of the voices of a hundred children finally allowed to eat their lunches.

"Thanks for your help today, ladies," Pastor Mitchell said, passing by them on the way to the kitchen. "I'm sure Rachel told you, but you're welcome to stay and have lunch before you head home."

"Do you guys want to eat?" Rachel asked, turning to Santana, Brittany, and Quinn. "They never have anything vegan, but I don't mind waiting. I want to talk to Mrs. Mills about the musical numbers for Wednesday anyway."

"I want to leave," Quinn said decisively, turning back around to face them.

"But Quinn," Brittany said sadly, "Molly Jones told me they had SpongeBob Squarepants macaroni and cheese on Mondays."

"Brittany, you can buy that for fifty cents at the Save-A-Lot down the street from your house. Let's go."

Rachel furrowed her brow and frowned, and appeared ready to protest after Quinn.

Santana elbowed her. "Let's just go," she said under her breath.

"What?" Rachel asked, turning to her, startled. "Why?"

Leave it to Rachel fucking Berry to draw attention. Brittany and Quinn stared at Santana in puzzlement.

It was about two seconds before Quinn caught on that Santana was expressing some kind of awkward, reluctant concern.

"Well, I'm going," she said, glaring a warning at Santana, then turned on her heel and headed for the door.

Rachel's head whipped back and forth between Quinn and Santana. "Is she— is it..?"

"I don't know," Santana said. "I think it's the kid. Go on," she urged with a tilt of her head.

Rachel threw Santana a worried, grateful look and followed Quinn.

"Britt," Santana sighed, "I'll walk to Save-A-Lot with you when we get home."

"Yesssss," Brittany said, fist-pumping as they made their way through the maze of tables full of children toward the door.

"See you tomorrow, SANTA," Cristofer yelled across the room.

"Not until Wednesday, you mutant," Santana yelled back at him. It wasn't until she turned her back on him that she let herself smile.

...

**Thursday, June 16****th**** / 8:30am**

Brittany was already awake and looking at her when Santana opened her eyes.

"Dude, that freaks me out," she mumbled, rolling over.

"I know. But I like the way you wrinkle your forehead when you're sleeping, like you're concentrating really hard on keeping your eyes closed."

Santana touched her forehead self-consciously, suddenly feeling the need to check for premature wrinkles.

"Did you sleep okay?" Brittany asked, snuggling up behind her.

"I think so," Santana said. She smiled, remembering the night before. "You put me right to sleep."

"No bad dreams this time?" Brittany asked after a few kisses on Santana's neck.

"No, not this time."

"Are you excited for today?" she asked, pulling back to gauge Santana's reaction.

"I guess," Santana said unenthusiastically. "I don't know why everything has to start so god-awful early in the morning, though."

"My mom can make coffee," Brittany offered. "HEY MOM! MOOOM!"

Santana widened her eyes in a panic and reached over the side of the bed to try to find her discarded pajamas. "Britt, wait! I'm—"

Brittany's mother, balancing a tall stack of folded laundry, poked her head inside the bedroom door. "What, Britt? Morning, Santana."

Santana sank into the mattress and hugged the comforter to her chin, mortified. "Um. . . good . . hi."

"Mom, can you make us coffee?"

"All right," she sighed, "But give me twenty minutes, because I need to throw your sister's soccer uniform in the dryer and water the garden before I get dressed and ready to go."

"Can you put it in those mugs that have the painting of the little village inside? I like to pretend that as I drink I'm rescuing the townspeople from a flood."

"You can do that part yourself, sweetheart. In the mean time you girls need to get a move on, you know we're supposed to be there by eleven."

She backed out of the doorway and closed the door.

Brittany turned to Santana and smiled, but it faded when she saw the horrified look on Santana's face.

"What's wrong?" she frowned.

Santana stared at Brittany, mouth agape. "What just happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you not notice that you just called your mother in here while we were waking up in bed together?"

"So?"

"So?" Santana stared at Brittany incredulously. "Wait – you TOLD her?"

"Yeah, I told her a couple of weeks ago, but she already knew."

Santana was unsure that she was currently breathing as she struggled to pick a sentence to start with. "What did she say? She doesn't care if I sleep here? Will she—is she going to tell my mother?"

"I think she's waiting for you to do that, Santana. Come on, let's go get in the shower."

Brittany rolled off the bed with a giggle, taking the comforter with her.

…..

Brittany's mother drove, with Brittany in the passenger seat and Santana curled up silently in the back seat.

"Feeling nervous, Santana?" Mrs. Pierce asked as they merged onto I-75 toward Toledo.

"What? Why?" Santana asked, sitting up straighter.

"About meeting the cheerleading coach. Are you nervous? You're awfully quiet back there."

"Oh. A little."

"If it helps, I'm sure you're both shoo-ins to make the team."

"Even though they're, like, a college team?"

"Absolutely," Mrs. Pierce reassured her, looking back at Santana in the rearview mirror. "Tons of girls from Sue's teams wind up on the Toledo State squad. You have nothing to worry about."

"I guess it's also that like. . . I don't really know if I want to start doing all of this again," she added, not entirely sure why she was getting into this right now. "I kind of got used to not being screamed at every single day, and not being constantly sore. And, you know, eating solid food."

Mrs. Pierce laughed. "I think you might find there are other ways to lead a top-notch cheerleading team besides the way Coach Sylvester does it, Santana. She's certainly well-respected in her field because she wins, but her methods are anything but universal."

"No offense, Mrs. Pierce, but like. . . how do you know all this?"

"Wellll, I know because the coach we're going to meet, Laura Brighton, is one of my oldest friends. We were on the squad together in Toledo twenty years ago. Did Britt never tell you that?"

"No," Santana said, and because it was Brittany's mother, suppressed the urge to add, "Surprisingly, considering her big fucking mouth."

…..

At eleven o'clock sharp, Santana, Brittany, and Mrs. Pierce filed into the University of Toledo gymnasium and took seats in the top row of bleachers to watch the Toledo Rocket cheerleaders practice. Right away, Santana wasn't so sure about this coach, friend of Mrs. Pierce or not. She was wicked short, first of all, and she didn't even have a megaphone. And unless this was just some clever disguise put on only for prospective cheerleaders, it appeared that she was also . . . nice.

Santana glanced to her left, where Brittany and her mother were talking and pointing excitedly.

"What do you think, Santana?" Brittany asked.

Santana regarded the crop of cheerleaders on the floor skeptically.

"That one has fat arms," she pointed out. "And those two flyers totally have weird, lumpy legs. Also, the girl in the second row of the third pyramid has a unibrow. I mean, seriously, I can see it from up here."

"Santana," Mrs. Pierce interrupted, "Those girls could be your future teammates. What do you think of their _cheerleading_?"

"Oh. I don't know," she shrugged. "They're just warming up, right? So far I totally haven't seen them do anything Britts and I can't do."

"I told you you were shoo-ins," Mrs. Pierce said.

"Those uniforms are hideous, though," Santana added grimly.

…..

"Wait, that was it?" Santana asked half an hour later as the squad disbanded to hit the showers. "We didn't even get to see anything good yet!"

Mrs. Pierce gave her a slightly puzzled expression. "Well, it is a summer practice, Santana. I think they take it a little easier."

"I used to sweat blood five times a week at Sue's summer workouts."

Mrs. Pierce smiled. "I think you might be exaggerating."

Santana scowled and followed Brittany and her mother down the bleachers.

…..

After practice, they met Coach Brighton in the campus cafeteria for lunch.

Brittany's mom hugged her, and they called each other by their first names. "Laura, this is my daughter, Brittany, and this is Santana Lopez."

"Hi Brittany," Coach Brighton said, "I met you once when you were about three years old."

"I'm much taller now," Brittany said, shaking the coach's hand.

"Indeed," Coach Brighton agreed. "And Miss Lopez, it's nice to meet you as well."

Santana took the coach's outstretched hand in silence, forcing herself to smile.

"Why don't we sit and have some lunch?" Coach Brighton asked cheerfully.

…..

"I'm not surprised your daughter was one of the top cheerleaders on Sylvester's squad, Gail," Laura Brighton said as they sat in the cafeteria, with their orange trays outlining a perfect square on the table. "Brittany, your mom was pretty awesome when we were younger."

"She's still awesome," Brittany corrected.

Brittany's mother smiled. "So Laura, how would the tryout and scholarship process work, roughly?"

"Well, auditions are in late August, so we'll email you with the exact dates as soon as they're set. Once you qualify for the team, the admissions department will be looking to make sure you meet the academic requirements for the school. Now, they're a little more relaxed for competitive athletes, but we do expect you to graduate with certain qualifications. Make sure you take the SAT, girls, and get decent grades in your science, math, and English this fall. Once we take all of that plus financial need into consideration, we start making scholarship offers."

Santana and Brittany looked at each other soberly.

"So Santana," Laura continued brightly, "You were head cheerleader for a while, right?"

Santana was currently hunched over her tray with a chicken fajita wrap in her mouth. "Mmmhmm," she mumbled. "Um, yes."

"Very impressive," the coach said with a smile. "Now, did you two become friends while you were on Sue Sylvester's team?"

"Actually, Santana and Brittany have known each other since they were nine," Mrs. Pierce replied, to give Santana time to swallow.

"We met at cheerleading camp," Brittany explained. "We became best friends, and now she's my girlfriend."

Santana coughed, nearly spewing fajita onto her tray. "Brittany!"

"What?"

"Wow," Coach Brighton said, raising her eyebrows at Gail. "Well that's something, now isn't it?"

Gail smiled back, amused.

"Don't worry, Santana," the coach said, noting Santana's horror. "I want girls for my team who are confident enough to embrace who they are. So," she said pensively, "Two of Sue's top cheerleaders quit the team and wind up together. It's quite a story."

"Totally," Brittany said. "The other head cheerleader, Quinn Fabray, she has a girlfriend too, even though last year she had a baby. Her girlfriend Rachel is the only one who isn't a cheerleader, even though Santana says she's really flexible."

As Santana flushed in utter mortification, Brittany's mother gently intervened, "Okay, Brittany. That's enough for now."

"Well," Coach Brighton said, the water bottle she sipped from not quite concealing her amusement, "I am certainly looking forward to your tryouts. It sounds like the two of you could make thoroughly exciting additions to our team."

…..

"Santana?" Brittany asked that night, sprawled out on Santana's floor.

"Mmm," Santana grunted from the bed, on her third cycle through the cable programming guide.

"Why didn't you like Toledo?"

"I never said I didn't like it."

"You've been mad all day."

"I'm not mad."

"Well then, what are you?"

Santana flicked off the TV. There was a knot of general dissatisfaction in her stomach, and Brittany was poking at it.

"I don't know, I guess I just don't get it."

"Get what?"

"What the point is. Of like, being a cheerleader there."

"I don't understand, Santana," Brittany said, sitting up so she could see Santana's face.

"Britt, didn't you notice that team was super lame?" Santana asked. "They're supposed to be a college team, and they weren't doing anything we didn't do when we were sophomores in high school. I mean, why be on a squad that isn't going anywhere?"

"Soooo, you only want to do cheerleading for winning championships?"

"What's the point of cheering if you're not on the best team?"

"I thought the point of cheerleading is that it's fun. My mom said it was the most fun four years of her life being on the squad at Toledo. Anyway, Santana, I don't get it, because this morning you didn't even know if you wanted to cheer again and now Toledo isn't even good enough for you?"

"Britt, we were NATIONAL champions. You and I, we're the best. If we're going to cheer again, let's go somewhere we can be the best again."

"Like where?"

"I don't know," Santana said, folding her arms over her chest. "But I'm going to find out."

"Look, just don't tell my mom, okay? She was really excited for us to meet her friend. Didn't you think she was awesome, and so nice?"

"First of all, I didn't ask her to do that. Second of all, Britt, she was TOO nice. How are we supposed to take a coach like that seriously?"

"My mom took you there with me because she cares about you, and she knows I care about you."

Santana pushed past the pout in Brittany's bottom lip that made the pit of her stomach ache.

"Well, we need to make up our own minds, Britt."

"Yeah, I. . . I know that."

"And we need to train harder," Santana continued. "If we do go to Toledo, I want to be co-captains by our second semester. Between the two of us, we can whip even that band of misshapen, misfit toys into championship shape."

Brittany sighed. "Can you promise we can try to have fun, too, though?"

Santana shrugged. "I don't know, I guess."

"Okay then, Santana, I'm down. I don't mind training harder. But no crying when I kick your ass on our next 10k run."

"Oh, for real?" Santana said, raising her eyebrows. "How about no crying when I kick your ass RIGHT NOW," she said, pouncing on Brittany from the bed.

...

**Wednesday, June 22 / 10:42pm**

Brittany sat on her front porch, watching Santana pace the sidewalk at the end of the driveway. It was raining, but Santana refused to come inside.

She was out there kicking at puddles, sending miniature tidal waves of water crashing into the curb. Brittany played with the cuffs of her pants, which were soaking wet from the walk home. As she lifted them, she could see that her socks had brown spots of beer all over the backs of them. She frowned and smoothed them back down.

Santana walked up to the Pierces' mailbox and smacked it with the ball of her hand, and that was when Brittany stood up. She didn't bother to bring Rachel's umbrella as she tromped out to the sidewalk.

Santana smacked at Brittany's forearms as Brittany tried to pull her up the driveway toward the house. So Brittany wrapped her up in a bear hug, lifted her off her feet, and deposited her on the front porch. Santana glared, kicked off her shoes, and went inside.

Upstairs in Brittany's room, they peeled off their wet clothes wordlessly, and Brittany retrieved a couple of towels from the bathroom. Dry now but shivering, Santana balled herself up under the blankets of her bed.

"I've never been called ugly in my life," she said in a soft voice as Brittany slid into bed next to her.

Brittany curled herself around Santana.

"He didn't mean it," she said, stroking Santana's damp hair back from her face. "He was mad you didn't like him."

"I wish I'd punched him in the face."

"He was bigger than you, and drunk. You did the right thing."

Santana sniffed and shook her head. "I'm getting out of here."

"No Santana, don't go back out, please? It's late, and you're upset and naked."

"No, that's not what I mean," she said, rolling over to face Brittany. "I mean I'm getting out of here, for good."

"You're running away?"

"No, for college. I'm getting out of Ohio – I'm leaving this frickin' god awful, ugly, stupid, backwater hillbilly state."

Brittany took several seconds to absorb Santana's words.

"He was just one person, Santana."

"Yeah, well. We have to go someplace where nobody cares. Someplace where it's not full of rednecks. My mom found out USC has the top college cheerleading program in the country. She said I can go visit if I want to. And tomorrow when I get home, I'm going to tell her I want to go check it out."

"Where is USC?"

"LA."

"In California? That's like a hundred miles away."

"It's about as far away as we can get from here."

"But. . . I don't really want to get away from here."

"How can you say that after tonight?" Santana asked, anger raising the volume of her voice.

"Cause, I want to be near my mom and dad, and my brother and sister. Santana, I don't think leaving Ohio fixes anything."

"Well, I think you're wrong."

Brittany looked sadly at Santana's determined face.

"Well, can we still workout together?"

"'Can we still work out together?'" Santana repeated. "That's it, you're just going to accept it? Me and you going to different schools?"

"Santana, I know how you are when you make up your mind."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Brittany rolled onto her back, away from Santana.

"Can we talk about this in the morning? You're upset, Santana."

"Why aren't YOU?"

"I am!" Brittany said, putting her palms over her face. She took two deep breaths.

"Santana, I am upset, because you're like asking me to pick between you and my family, and it's all really fast and confusing. All I'm asking for is to talk about it when we're both calm."

"You mean when I'm not being a crazy bitch."

"Santana, no. That's not what I'm saying and you know that. Stop taking this out on me."

Santana curled her knees up closer to her chest, and buried her face in the pillow. She closed her eyes and two tears tracked down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Brittany rolled back onto her side, pressing the skin of her stomach and chest into Santana's back.

"Baby," Brittany said into her ear, squeezing her tight as she said the word. "It was just one guy. Okay?"

Santana inhaled sharply, and nodded.

"Yeah."

"I want you to go see USC if that's what you want to do. But can you promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"Come try out with me at Toledo anyway. And keep working out and practicing with me all summer."

Santana smiled, just a little, into her pillow. "That was two things."

"I know, I thought of the second thing after I was already talking."

"Yeah, Britt," Santana said, rolling back over to face her. "Yeah, I can do those two things."


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday, June 18****th**** / 12:17pm**

"I'm asking you to try on one fucking pair of jeans."

"They're ugly."

"You haven't even looked at them!"

"I've seen enough."

"Jesus H. Christ, Fabray," Santana said, flapping the rejected clothes against her legs in frustration. "It's like shopping with a ten-year-old boy. You won't even look at anything."

"I've looked at plenty," Quinn said dismissively, circling aimlessly around the closest rack for the third time. "And I don't like any of them."

"Aight, you know what?" Santana said, slamming the hangers holding Quinn's prospective jeans back down against the rack. "I give up. Go back to Christians-R-Us for your summer wardrobe for all I care. But when we get our first gig for the band, I don't want to hear your bullshit when you're forced to wear my clothes."

Quinn shook her head and turned her back on Santana. "I need a churro."

"Oh shit, Q, good idea," Santana said, shoving the clothes she'd been planning to try on back on the rack and following Quinn out into the mall.

...

They sat side by side on a bench near the crowded food court, the bags of Santana's merchandise in a pile between them.

"So Berry got a part," Santana said, eventually, as she crinkled up the wrapper of her third churro.

"Yep. Two, actually."

"So which one did she take?"

"The Sondheim one. _Company_."

"Figures. Never heard of it."

"I got the movie of the Broadway revival on iTunes. Haven't watched it yet."

"We should probably do that on our own time before she makes us sit through a screening in her basement."

Quinn said smirked just a little. "Probably."

"She at rehearsal?"

"Uh huh."

"So how'd you get out of going?"

Quinn pursed her lips. "I went once. Didn't go that well."

"Couldn't stand her big diva mouth, huh? I get it."

"It was more that she introduced me to the whole cast as her girlfriend, and then we had a fight in the bathroom."

Santana uncrossed her legs and stomped both feet on the ground, turning toward Quinn. "For serious, why do they think that's all right?"

"I would think you'd be used to it from Brittany by now."

"Uh uh," Santana said, shaking her head. "It hasn't been her usual TMI crap. She told her mother AND our new cheerleading coach at Toledo about us, right in front of me."

"Damn," Quinn exhaled.

"Oh, that ain't all. She also told the coach that you were gay, too, and that I'd slept with your girlfriend."

"She—she what?"

"That's riiiight."

"What would possess a person?" Quinn shook her head in disbelief. "Okay, Brittany's big mouth aside, though," she added, "I need you to not say that out loud anymore."

Santana smiled. "Which part?"

"Any of it."

Santana stifled her grin with the straw of her Diet Coke.

"Okay, Fabray," she said, finishing the soda and setting the empty paper cup aside. "It's time to talk about the elephant in the food court."

Quinn stared ahead. "And that would be?" she asked, already tired of the conversation.

"That little episode you had the other day."

"What are you talking about?"

"With, you know, the demons."

Quinn side-eyed her. "I would tell you to speak English, but I don't actually want to know what you're getting at."

"Oh, quit playing dumb," Santana said. "You were crying about your kid at the Bible School thing."

"About. . . my kid?"

Santana held out her hands, palm up, at her sides. "Uh, yeah."

"Okay, wait. Wait. You think you saw me crying about my daughter, and you – Santana – want to talk about it?"

"That's right," she nodded. "Look, I'll admit it, Q, I'm interested in this topic, in your particular streak of teenaged-mother crazy. I mean, first of all, I'm morbidly fascinated by why anyone would choose to push a fat, screaming, ball of soul-suck out of their lady business in the first place. I'm fascinated why anyone who was lucky enough to find some poor, guilt-ridden sap to take it off their hands would be anything but grateful that they never had to change its diaper, or attach its mouth to your boob when, let's face it, you have Rachel for that and it's way more fun."

"Oh my God stop, stop, stop, Santana, just stop." Quinn held her hand out to the side to block Santana from her view.

"Then tell me what your problem was."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn't about Beth."

"So you were just being a bitch for the usual reasons, then."

Quinn nodded. "Guess so."

"Bull shit."

"No, seriously. Santana, it wasn't the kid." She paused and shrugged a little. "Not specifically."

"Really? Cause that's where you were looking when it happened."

"Just leave me alone, Santana. I would rather try on jeans than talk about this."

"Look, Q, I don't want the gory details. I just want to understand why it was I had to walk to the damn Save-A-Lot with Brittany to buy mac-n-cheese in the middle of the day when we weren't even high. I think you owe me the truth for that. Help me understand how that little twerp who gave you a snot-encrusted t-shirt as a thank you present got under your skin if it wasn't about the daughter you gave to the woman who gave birth to the chick you're currently banging. "

"Okay, oh my God, okay. Just stop talking."

Santana smiled, proud of herself.

"It wasn't the kid, it was the prayer," Quinn said. "And the scripture, and the homily. It was all of it."

"Oh. . .kay," Santana said, furrowing her brow. "I mean, totally I get it. That shit bums me out hard core. But I thought you like, got off on it."

"I love my church," Quinn said, her voice low and tired. "But standing at that one hearing them preach to all those kids? I don't know," she shrugged.

"Yeah, I'm still confused, cause I always thought your type enjoyed incepting the young and the vulnerable."

Quinn's jaw dropped halfway open. "You are seriously offensive."

"Tell me something I'm not proud of," Santana smiled. "Offending you isn't _really_ a challenge, though, but I'll take the win. So anyway, so they were praying with kids. Who cares?"

"Kids are just . . . innocent," Quinn said.

"Those kids?" Santana asked. "Please. You should have heard what that kid Cristofer was saying in Spanish when he knew the priests couldn't understand him. I used to do the same thing, so I know they're not innocent, they're little assholes."

"No," Quinn said, shaking her head. "No, think about it. They still have all their opportunities in front of them. All their choices. All their chances to do it right."

"And . . . what? You don't? Jesus Fabray, it's not like you're knocking on the pearly gates anytime soon. At least wait until you've screwed up half your life and have your midlife crisis before you get this depressed about all your fuckups."

"Santana, you're not getting it. Ten years ago, I _was_ Dottie. Now I've screwed up everything."

"But, why? I mean, yeah you got pregnant and that was a total train wreck, but you fixed it. And yeah, you're totes a lezbo, but there's nothing you can do about that, so—"

"Would you keep your voice down?"

"No, and would you quit shushing me? You're like a gay fucking librarian up in here."

"I don't know why I bother talking to you."

"Uhh, you talk to me because you know that once you get past my hilarious, dagger-like insults, I bring the wisdom, and I bring it LHA-style, without a side of bullshit. So, listen up, Q. I don't know much about your religion crap. To be honest, I find the whole zombie Jesus story downright creepy, and I outgrew imaginary friends that I could talk to in my head somewhere around the third grade. But like, aren't there a lot of gay Christians out there? I mean, it must be most of them, judging by how all the altar boys I hooked up with in confirmation class in junior high turned out."

"Not at my church."

"Well, shit, find a new church. This is western Ohio, it must be the only place in the country that has more churches than Starbucks."

"I grew up in that church, Santana, it's not that simple. And that's not what it's about, anyway. It's not about being . . . gay," Quinn said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"Ay Dios mio," Santana said, pressing her fingertips into her temples as Quinn lapsed back into silence instead. "This is like fucking pulling teeth. Look, if this is going to take much longer imma go get another churro."

"I was proud of being good, okay?" Quinn exhaled. "I was proud of being . . . not you." Quinn flapped her hand derisively at Santana.

"Pfft. If by proud you mean devastated."

"Would you shut up? If you're going to badger me into talking to you, you can at least listen."

"I would listen if you would actually say anything."

"I was pure, Santana. I started dating when I was thirteen and I could have any cute boy I wanted. And they did, they wanted me. But I never let them touch me. It wasn't something I talked about, it was who I was. It was what everyone expected, and I did it. I stuck to my morals, and I was good."

"And now you're. . . . not good?"

"Now? Now I'm starting to think it wasn't my morals at all. Maybe I just never wanted those boys to begin with."

Quinn paused, and it took Santana a second to realize the shaking of her shoulders was from laughter.

"Yet I _still_ managed to get pregnant," she continued. "And of course, considering I'm having sex all the time now, it's pretty safe to say I have no moral fortitude at all. I probably never did. And that, Santana, is why being around praying little kids makes me feel like throwing myself in that fountain over there and breathing in deeply. Happy now?"

"Sooo let me get this straight," Santana began, ignoring the question. "No pun intended, of course. It's not so much that you feel guilty about gaying it up with Berry every night. It's more that now that you finally have the opportunity to have sex with someone you're actually attracted to and you're taking it, you're no longer _better_ than everyone else."

"Yes, it made me special," Quinn said indignantly. "Including to myself. And you have no room to talk, Santana. Look at the things you've done to stand out."

"So then why don't you stop?" Santana asked. "With Berry, I mean. If being pure and special is so important, stop having sex."

Quinn laughed again. "I tried."

Santana looked at Quinn with quiet alarm. "You tried to stop sleeping with Rachel?"

Quinn nodded. "I made it one night. I told her I had a headache, and we cuddled instead. I spent the whole night smelling her hair and kissing her neck."

"So you're torturing yourself. God, are you sure you're not Catholic?"

"My dad says Catholics are insane and hellbound for praying to humans."

"Well it must be true, coming from such an upstanding guy as your dad."

"Watch it," Quinn said.

"Okay, so you want to know what I think?" Santana asked, not pausing to hear the answer. "I think you're fucking in love with this girl, right? And don't tell me that you're not, because it's seriously so obvious it's sickening. But you're wasting your energy trying to pry yourself away, just to be able to say you're this perfect little angel, which nobody except you ever thought you were anyway."

Quinn stared at the marbled tile at her feet.

"Fabray, are you listening? I'm trying to tell you to shut up and be happy in the privacy of your own bedroom. You and me, and Brittany and Rachel, we're going to face enough bullshit in this world without beating ourselves up, too. You have a right to try to figure it out, okay? You have a right to be happy. If Jesus doesn't like it, he'll forgive you later. He's like, famous for it."

"That's an oversimplification," Quinn said half-heartedly.

"Okay, can we talk about me now?" Santana said a moment later, jarring Quinn out of a rather stunned, pensive silence.

". . . Yeah, whatever."

"So, I need your help. Do you know what's on the SAT?" 

**Wednesday, June 22 / 6:57pm**

Rachel sat fidgeting at the oversized desk in her parents' study. Still dissatisfied, she rearranged the note cards in front of her for a fifth time.

"Quinn," she said finally, unable to come to a decision on her own, "I need your input. Do you think I should organize these vocabulary flashcards alphabetically, by difficulty level, by part of speech, or by frequency of appearance on the SAT in the past seven years?"

Quinn, standing on her knees on the loveseat across the room, browsing the Berrys' meticulously organized bookshelves, answered absently. "I think you should pick your three favorite cards and plan to teach those, because that's how long it's going to take before they lose interest and start making out, or talking about the last episode of Cake Boss."

Rachel frowned. "It's possible that your cynicism is not unfounded," she conceded. "But you don't think the prospect of winning cheerleading scholarships together will be enough for them to take this exam seriously? Santana asked you for help, right? That can't have been easy for her."

"I guess we'll see," Quinn replied dismissively. "Your dads have so many books," she said in a slightly awed tone, running her fingers along the row of spines. "Everything on my dad's shelf is a version of the Bible, or something by a disgraced Republican governor."

"They're not just for show, either," Rachel beamed. "Everything on these shelves has been read by one or both of my dads."

_I wonder if the compulsive organization is genetics or environmental,_ Quinn thought to herself, noting the Library of Congress-level precision in the books' arrangement. She stepped down from the loveseat and moved to her left to inspect the section marked "religion/philosophy."

"_A History of God_?" she asked, pulling the title down from the shelf. "How you can write a history of God? That's what the Bible is."

"Well, that's not so Miss Fabray."

Quinn jumped. She turned around to see Leroy Berry smiling at her as he entered the room with a tray of snacks for their study group.

"The Bible doesn't tell you how people's ideas about God came about. Or about how those ideas have changed over the millennia," he continued. He set the tray on the desk and joined Quinn at the bookshelf. "This is one of my favorite non-fiction books," he said with a smile, tapping its cover with his index finger.

"But, you can't study God like a school subject," Quinn said carefully.

"Why not?" Leroy asked.

"Because His is nature is revelatory. It's beyond human reason."

"God is a human idea, Quinn. Whatever your beliefs, you can study the history of any human idea."

"Why do I get the feeling this is one of those books that would try to talk me out of my faith?" she said, opening it to the table of contents.

"Actually," he said, "it was written by a former Catholic nun. But there's only one way to find out if it confirms your suspicions. You can borrow it if you like."

"Oh. Thanks," Quinn said quietly.

"No problem. Oh – looks like your friends are here," Leroy said, looking out the front window.

Quinn put the book back on the shelf where she'd found it.

Rachel positioned herself just inside the study doorway.

...

"Welcome, Brittany!" she exclaimed cheerfully as she and Santana made their way inside. "Please join Quinn by the fireplace for your SAT math lesson. Santana, you and I will proceed to the desk area for a lesson in SAT reading and writing."

"Rachel, why does your hair look like that?" Brittany asked.

"It's in a bun," Rachel explained, put off by the question, as it seemed to her that the answer should be obvious. "I'm in character for the role of English teacher, Brittany."

"Shit, I didn't know we were role-playing," Santana said. "I would have worn my naughty schoolgirl uniform to go with your teacher thing."

Rachel blushed as Quinn's glare chilled the room.

"So Santana," Rachel said, quickly moving along and ushering her over to the desk. "Did you review the eight most frequently tested grammar rules that I posted on your wall yesterday?"

"Wait, that was on purpose?" Santana asked, settling in at the desk. "I thought you got hacked and sent me a virus so I blocked you."

Rachel stared blankly for a moment, blinked, and shook her head. "Okay. Whatever, I'll resend it later tonight after you unblock me. Let's . . . let's start with the essay." She rifled through her papers until she found the one she was looking for, held it up, and cleared her throat.

"How would you answer the following question: 'Is education necessary for equality, or can equal opportunity be achieved by other means?'"

"Yes."

"Wait, yes what? It's either-or, not yes or no."

"Oh. The first part. Education for equality, or whatever. Is that right?"

"Well, for the essay part there's no right or wrong answer," Rachel explained patiently. "What matters is how well you can argue for your opinion. So let's talk about what you would say to support your position."

"I don't know," Santana shrugged. "Why do I have to write about this? Why can't I write about something I want?"

"Because you'll spend four years in college writing about things you don't care about, and they have to make sure you can do that before they accept you. So, why did you pick that answer?"

"Because it's what my mother always says."

"Okay, why does your mother say it?"

"I don't know, I usually pretend I forgot how to speak Spanish when she starts one of her minority education rants."

Rachel pressed her lips into a thin line. _The successful teacher never shows frustration toward her students,_ she reminded herself, _but instead uses what the student knows to their advantage._

"The SAT readers," she started slowly, "like when you use examples from history or literature to back up your points. For example, you could talk about the importance of literacy in the struggles of women or African Americans to gain equal rights. Or maybe there's something you've learned about the history of Hispanic Americans that you could use," she said with her eyebrows raised and an encouraging smile.

Santana appeared to be deep in thought.

"All right, I got this," she said finally. "Wait. Can I use real-life people?"

"Personal anecdotes are acceptable, yes."

"Word, so how about that time on Real Housewives of Orange County when –"

"Okay, Santana?" Rachel interrupted. "You're gonna need to read some books."

...

"Brittany. Brittany!"

"What?"

"I said, let's review one more time. The angles of a triangle add up to. . ."

"One hundred eighty degrees."

"And in problem number three, we figured out that the first two angles are. . ."

"Forty-five degrees each."

"So one more time – how would we figure out the measure of the third angle, x?"

Brittany picked up her calculator and appeared ready to start punching in numbers. Quinn's heart leapt with joy.

"Can you show me again how to turn this thing on?"

Quinn lowered her head into her hands.

...

"Santana, no texting! You're supposed to be memorizing those vocabulary words!"

Santana hit send, and across the room Brittany giggled.

"Hey, wait are you talking about me?" Rachel asked, alarmed.

"Cool it, Berry," Santana rolled her eyes. "We're gonna take a little break, that's all."

She got up and walked to the window that looked into the Berrys' back yard just as Noah Puckerman appeared on the other side of it. Rachel and Quinn jumped out of their seats, startled, and Santana lifted the screen to let Puck in. He was carrying two brown bags.

"What are you doing here, Puckerman?" Rachel demanded.

"What? I have to take the SAT, too, you know. Chill out, Rachel." He detached a can of beer from a six pack in the large bag and tossed it in Rachel's direction.

She jumped out of the way and it hit the floor behind her.

She lowered her eyebrows in disapproval. "My dads are home!" she whispered.

"It's Wednesday, isn't it, Berry?" Santana drawled. "If memory serves, they're about to leave for their bowling league in, ohhh, twelve seconds or so."

An hour later – which roughly translated to two six packs and a decent fraction of a bottle of whiskey – Rachel lounged on the loveseat with her head in Quinn's lap as Quinn scowled down at her with a distinct look of "I told you so."

Brittany lay upside down on the easy chair by the fireplace, her legs slung over the back of it and her head resting on the floor next to Santana's. Santana lay flat on her back on the floor, scrolling lazily through something on her phone.

Puck leaned back in the desk chair with his feet propped up next to the computer monitor. He was flipping through a book of Renaissance art, stopping at all the female nudes, keeping one eye on Santana and Brittany so as not to miss any drunken making out.

"Hey Britt," Santana said, a hint of mischief in her voice.

"Yeah?"

"Mila Kunis, Emma Stone, Olivia Wilde."

Across the room, Puck smirked and let out a "Yeeeahh."

Rachel clapped her hands, laughing.

"Ugh, please don't," Quinn said. "I hate this game."

"Why?" Rachel asked, "It's totally fun."

"It's objectification."

"Britt?" Santana encouraged. "Mila, Emma, Olivia."

"I would marry all of them."

Santana sat up. "We have been over this eleven thousand times. You can only marry ONE of them and you can only fuck ONE of them, and only once. The third one you have to throw off a cliff."

"Okay," Brittany said, chewing her bottom lip. "I would marry Emma Stone because she's funny."

"Okay, and?"

"I would sleep with Olivia Wilde."

"Good call." Santana clinked Brittany's shot glass with hers. "So Mila gets the cliff."

"No. I would marry her too."

Rachel threw her head back in laughter as Quinn rolled her eyes.

"I give up," Santana said. "You lose, you have to drink." She got up and took the bottle of whiskey from Puck, and returned to fill Brittany's shot glass.

"Okay, do Berry now," Santana ordered.

"Okay, Rachel," Brittany said. "Emma Watson. . . Shay Mitchell . . . Shantel Vansanten."

"I don't know who that last person is," Rachel said, frowning.

"Britt, nobody watches _One Tree Hill_ except you," Santana reminded her. "Pick someone else."

"Okay, uhhh. Kristen Stewart."

"I'd throw Kristen Stewart off a cliff for agreeing to be in Twilight," Rachel said, wrinkling her nose.

"Bitch, you crazy," Santana said under her breath.

"Like _Pretty Little Liars_ is any better," Quinn pointed out. "At least Kristen Stewart has been in other stuff."

"Looks like we know who Quinn would fuck," Puck said, opening another beer.

Quinn flushed. "I would not."

"Quinn does have a point," Rachel conceded. "I'd have to marry Emma Watson, I suppose, never mind how weird it is that I've been watching her in movies since we were both little kids."

"So you'd kill Kristen Stewart, and marry Emma Watson. What else? Come on, Rachel, you have to say it," Brittany teased.

"Okay, okay." She took a deep breath. "I'd fuck Shay Mitchell."

Rachel blushed and covered her face with her hands. "Maybe you were right about this game," she said to Quinn through the spaces between her fingers.

"No sympathy," Quinn said.

"Okay, okay. Since Quinn won't play, it's your turn, Noah," Rachel said, sitting up. "Ummm. Okay, so who do boys like?"

"Artie loved Megan Fox," Brittany suggested.

"Okay, Megan Fox . . . Katy Perry . . . Sofia Vergara."

"Who's that last chick?"

"Who is Sofia Vergara?" Santana asked in disbelief. "You are the gayest one in this room, Puckerman."

She stood up, clicked a few times on her phone as she crossed the room, and showed him her screen. "You're welcome."

"Daaamn," he exhaled. "Easy, I'd marry her. And I'd fuck Megan Fox. Katy Perry gets the cliff, she's not that hot, and her music sucks."

"Okay, Santana's next," Brittany said excitedly.

"All right, Lopez," Puck started, rubbing his hands together. "Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, and Rachel Berry."

"Oh, come on!" Santana exclaimed, as Rachel and Brittany both let out a long "Ohhhhh!"

"Hells no, you can't switch to real life people," Santana protested.

"I don't know why everyone is pretending to be so scandalized," Quinn chimed in. "We all know she's going to marry Brittany and throw me off the cliff so she can sleep with Rachel. I mean, substitute 'beat up' for 'throw off a cliff' and it's basically all happened already."

"I want to hear her say it," Puck shrugged.

"Well, of course I would marry Brittany," Santana smiled. "But I'd throw Berry off the cliff," she said, shrugging. "What?" she said, against Quinn's horrified look. "Been there, done that. I'm a breaking new ground kind of girl."

"I need a drink," Quinn said to Rachel.

"Okay _Noah_," Santana said, narrowing her eyes. "Finn Hudson, Sam Evans, Mike Chang."

"Just give him the whiskey," Rachel said, when she was able to stop laughing. "Cause he's never gonna answer that."

"For your information, I am comfortable in my masculinity," Puck said, standing up. "I'd totally marry Finn. He's my boy."

"Noted. So who would you fuck?" Santana asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Puck paced between the desk and the love seat.

"Dude, you are thinking about this way too hard," she said. "Do you need some alone time to work it out for yourself?"

Puck finally came to a stop. "I'd fuck Mike Chang. Cause if I'm gonna fuck a dude I want him to have sweet moves."

Santana pretended to vomit as Quinn frowned and muttered, "Poor Sam."

"Santana," Puck said, "Mr. Schue, Coach Bieste, Coach Sylvester."

"Gimme the bottle," Santana said, shaking her head. "No fuckin' way." She took two big gulps straight from the bottle of whiskey.

"That's right, I'm the king," Puck said, flexing his biceps.

"I need to cleanse," Santana said, and wrapped her hand around the back of Brittany's neck.

"Puckerman, put your phone away, you perv," Quinn chastised him as he snapped pictures of them making out on the easy chair.

"Whatever, I gotta split," he said as he continued to take pictures. "Lauren's gettin' off work in 20 and I usually get me some if I meet her there and walk her home. Later, lesbos."

He snapped one more picture as he walked out the door.

"He is such a pig sometimes," Quinn remarked after she heard the front door slam.

"It must over-inflate his ego hanging out with us," Rachel agreed. "He knows we know he's slept with three of us and made out with the fourth."

"Yeah but think of how blue his balls are right now," Santana said with a smile, rolling off of Brittany, her voice husky and stilted from shortness of breath. "He can leer all he wants but that's it. Ain't never goin' there again."

"No way," Quinn said.

"Do you guys ever miss men?" Rachel asked. "I mean, like . . . sex with them?"

"I don't miss being afraid of getting pregnant," Quinn answered.

"I like sex with men," Brittany offered. "But it's not about the person's gender, so. Good sex is good sex."

"Berry, trust me. Girls are so much better," Santana said emphatically. "Think about it, when a guy is fucking you, he's moving how it feels good for him. When a girl is touching you, it's because she wants you to have an orgasm."

"I'm sure not all men are selfish like that, right?" Rachel asked hopefully.

"Not after they've done it a bunch of times," Brittany said.

"Sometimes they make sure you get there because of their ego," Santana added. "But it's not the same thing."

"Yeah, but you never slept with a guy who was in love with you," Quinn pointed out. "It's not really fair to judge men on random hookups, especially ones in high school."

"But so," Rachel interrupted, "You don't find it. . . unsatisfying to be with a girl? After being with boys?"

"Okay, wait, it's all becoming clearer," Santana laughed. "She's asking if we miss penises. There are ways to have that experience without a dude attached to it, you know, Berry. I'm sure Quinn would strap on for you if you asked nicely."

"Quinn's red," Brittany observed.

"Have you guys . . . have you like, tried that?" Rachel asked Santana and Brittany, swallowing nervously.

Santana and Brittany turned to each other and smiled shyly.

"Rachel, stop," Quinn whispered.

"We've talked about it," Brittany said.

"But what am I supposed to do, order it online and have it shipped to my parents' house? I don't think so," Santana said.

"Aren't there stores for that?" Rachel asked.

"Walk in and buy that in person? That's even worse."

"I'd go," Brittany shrugged.

Santana turned and looked at her.

"I'll go in and buy it," she repeated. "I might be a little embarrassed, but don't you think it'd be awesome if I could hold onto you with both hands?"

"I. . . uh,yeah," Santana said hoarsely. "Can we. . . Britt, let's go home."

"Oh, take my umbrella," Rachel said, looking out the window as Santana and Brittany stood up to leave. "It's pouring."

...

Rachel smiled as she heard Brittany's giggle retreat out into the rain. She laid her head back in Quinn's lap, and Quinn played absently with her hair as they listened to the rain fall.

"Everything okay?" Rachel asked, trying to lend her voice a light-hearted tone.

Quinn shrugged.

"Are you mad at Santana and Brittany, or something?"

"No. It's their problem if they blow off the SAT, not mine. I already got a 2150."

"Quinn, I have to be honest, okay? You're scaring me a little."

"Scaring you?"

Rachel sat up.

"Yeah, a little. You seem so unhappy. I worry when you brood like this. Quinn, I'm trying to give you space, but then I don't know how to reach you when I start to feel like there's too much of it. I always think you'll talk to me about what's bothering you when you're ready, but. I – I don't know. I guess I'm not sure what to do."

Rachel felt a little dizzy. What was she saying? Whiskey might be a bad, bad thing.

Quinn opened and closed her mouth. "I'm not . . . mad at you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Well, did something happen? Did something change?"

Quinn felt her stomach lurch. What could she say? Really, nothing _had_ happened. And no matter how sad – desperate, even – Rachel's eyes looked, it didn't help her think of words to say.

But she had to say something.

"I really hate that stupid game."

"I know," Rachel said, relief flooding her chest at receiving any answer at all. "I'm sorry, I should have stopped it."

"It's not your fault."

"But Quinn, why does it bother you so much? It's just a silly game."

"I don't like talking about women that way," Quinn said quietly, turning her head from Rachel.

_What way, as though you like them? _

"Not even with Santana and Brittany?" she asked aloud.

"No. I just want to talk about you," Quinn said, and managed a genuine smile. She reached a hand toward Rachel's face and brushed her hair away from her forehead. Rachel's heart leapt as soon as Quinn's lips turned upward, a testament to how seldom she saw it happen these days.

"You want to talk about _me_ with Santana and Brittany?" she teased. "I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"God, no," Quinn said. "They would like it too much."

"But, Quinn?" Rachel said, serious again. "You can talk about it with me, you know. About women. About liking them."

"Oh, you're an expert on women, now?" Quinn said, reaching out to tickle Rachel's side.

"No, I'm serious, Quinn," Rachel said, grabbing onto her hand. "I know it's not easy for you, and truth be told, sometimes I'm a little confused, too. Maybe we can help each other."

Quinn stared at Rachel, her eyes soft. Quinn's breath caught in her throat and butterflies fluttered in Rachel's stomach as she thought Quinn might cry, or speak, or _something_. It was a mix of anticipation and trepidation, like waiting for a first kiss.

"Rachel. . ." Quinn squeezed her eyes shut. "I just need . . ."

And then there was an actual kiss, and not a hypothetical one, and Rachel's offer was left hanging in the air while Quinn pushed her down on the loveseat.

And Rachel was confused, because this was not exactly conducive to the discussion she'd been craving, but she was also a little worked up, because well, there had been a lot of talk of fucking and marrying and girls giving you orgasms and strap-ons and there had also, frankly, been a lot of alcohol, so if this is what Quinn wanted to do instead of talking, how, in good conscience, could she deny her?

Which, really, she probably wouldn't have even had time to do anyway, because Quinn was lifting her shirt in a fantastic hurry, and her hands were everywhere at once, and then all of a sudden Rachel's bra was undone and her breasts were under Quinn's palms.

"God, Quinn, your hands," she breathed, the heat in her body collecting between her legs and in her cheeks.

She tugged at Quinn's shirt, because really, breasts were so much better against each other than against clothing of any kind. And she reached upwards because fingers, specifically Rachel's fingers, were much better in Quinn's hair than anywhere else.

And when you thought about it, Rachel decided, tongues against tongues might be even better than breasts against breasts. Although, it was a pointless debate really, especially when you could have both at once, which Rachel currently did, and so there was no reason to prefer one over the other that she could see, or even to argue about it with oneself. Better to just appreciate the way Quinn worked her tongue deep into Rachel's mouth, smashing her lips with the force of it, murmuring those little noises and stinging Rachel's skin with her nails.

Rachel did not appreciate, though, the fabric of Quinn's skirt between their bodies, and the damn zipper that she couldn't seem to get a hold of one-handed while trying to breathe through Quinn's face.

"Off," she whined, and Quinn sat up and started to undo it, but it had the unintended consequences of taking Quinn's skin away from her, not to mention her breasts and her tongue, and it was all quite tragic and unfortunate.

But as it turned out, while unpleasant, the absence of a Quinn on top of her did afford her the opportunity to remove the rest of her own clothing. As soon as that skirt was off of Quinn, Rachel was on her again and this time naked, tackling her to the love seat.

"Ohhh, Quinn," Rachel whispered, eyes closing, as their crotches met and Rachel could feel how ready Quinn already was. The tiny patch of curls at Quinn's very center was soaked and leaving trails of sticky on Rachel's skin every time she moved.

And Rachel couldn't not touch that, there was no way, so then her fingers were winding through Quinn's hair and parting the folds of her skin, and God, she really wanted to stay here and play but Quinn was rocking her hips up and down and Rachel could _smell_ her now. So then her fingers were inside of Quinn, smooth and sticky, tracing the shape of her edges, fighting the wall of her body to work their way deeper.

Quinn grimaced and let out a little whimper, pretty much the sexiest one she had ever done ever as far as Rachel could tell, just loud enough for Rachel to know where to stay, and Rachel wanted to fuck her, but even more than that didn't want those hips to stop rocking beneath her, because that sight was making her sweat all by itself.

"You do it," she whispered, holding her hand strong and firm against Quinn's insides. "Let me watch you."

"No. . . Rachel, please," Quinn pleaded. "Please."

"Come on, Quinn," Rachel said, thrusting a little, well aware it wasn't enough.

Quinn arched her back and let out a low "Mmmm," of frustration and slid her body roughly down against Rachel's hand.

They wound up compromising, Rachel moving a lot and Quinn moving a little, and Rachel got inspired because really, fucking one's girlfriend is very inspirational, and reached down and tugged on Quinn's hair behind her ear.

"Stop it," Quinn hissed, and batted at her hand.

And Rachel said, "No," and held on anyway because, well, she was thoroughly enjoying feeling Quinn strain against her in two places now.

Quinn either stopped caring about the hair-pulling or decided that she liked it, because the next thing to happen was that Quinn's fingertips were working their way between Rachel's legs. She wasn't fucking Rachel, exactly, because she was barely inside of her. She was _feeling_ her.

"Why are you doing that, Quinn?" Rachel cooed in her ear. "Does it help you come to feel me all wet from fucking you?" she continued, because apparently, whiskey was indeed a bad, bad thing, a bad thing that made her quite bold.

Quinn only whimpered in response, but Rachel had her answer anyway, written across Quinn's contorted face.

"Your face when you come is the sexiest thing ever," Rachel said, breathless as she struggled to keep the pressure on Quinn's insides as they clenched and threatened to push her out. "You are so fucking hot."

Quinn squeezed Rachel's hand with her inner thighs and then everything about her collapsed at once. Rachel smiled in pleasure and in pride, and then slid her body upwards and straddled Quinn.

She rode Quinn's fingers all the way down to the base of her hand, and then fell forward, bringing their bodies together roughly, with a smack.

"Talk to me, Quinn," Rachel breathed, as she and Quinn worked against each other again. "Talk to me like I talked to you."

Quinn squeezed her eyes shut more tightly, and planted her hand on Rachel's hip.

"What's it like to feel me up here, Quinn?" she tried again. "What's it like to watch me?"

"You're beautiful, Rachel," Quinn said, the hoarse tension in her voice making up somewhat for the fact that it wasn't exactly the response Rachel was looking for.

Rachel didn't dwell on it, frankly, because Quinn's fingers were doing their job. She came easily and with a moan that seemed to have a mind of its own, and it was really, really good, both the orgasm and the moan.

Her body felt warm and relaxed, and she planted kisses across Quinn's face.

"You are so, so beautiful, too, Quinn."

Quinn opened her eyes, finally, and she looked up at Rachel and smiled a little.

"Can we. . ." Rachel said, smiling a smile that was somehow both shy and mischievous, "Can I maybe, have your mouth?"

Quinn closed her eyes and opened her mouth a little as she nodded and rolled Rachel onto her back.

The downside, for Rachel, as Quinn slid down her body, was that she couldn't try to get Quinn to talk while this was going on.

But that was okay, she decided as Quinn's warm, soft mouth closed over her clit. She'd probably do enough talking during this part for the both of them.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sunday, June 28 / 12:02pm**

Quinn and Santana stood side-by-side on a sidewalk in Columbus, glowering at their general situation.

It was disgustingly hot and humid, for one thing, even for a summer day in Ohio. It was loud, for another, and for a third it as so crowded that they had to flatten themselves backwards against the brick exterior of the hardware store behind them to avoid being swept away with the torrents of people pushing past.

The annual Columbus Pride Parade was just getting underway, with the first of it funneling past them, salsa music blaring. Quinn had been asked to drive them here at 8am to make sure they got a good spot on the route, and now she and Santana were "saving it" under Rachel's orders while she and Brittany were. . . well, Quinn hadn't really bothered to note where they were going or what they were doing. In the grand scheme of things, it was actually quite fine with her to be standing and waiting; as unpleasant as it was, she would rather be here than fighting her way through the masses of (so very gay) humanity surrounding her.

"We're not even going to be able to see anything from here," she remarked to Santana, gesturing to the groups of friends who had crowded the curb in front of them.

"What?" Santana yelled from barely a foot away.

"Nothing," Quinn shook her head. Following Santana's gaze, she realized it wasn't just the revelry around them that had prevented her from registering what Quinn had said. Santana had been checking out a girl.

Quinn was seized with an overriding desire to kick Santana in the shins.

"What are you doing?"

"What?"

"Quit looking at her."

"Why?"

"Because."

Quinn shrugged, but it felt more like a shudder.

Their eyes followed a lesbian couple who wound their way through the crowd in front of them. One woman carried an infant on her back, while the other herded twin toddlers at her sides. The woman with the infant smiled at Quinn and Santana. Santana smiled back while Quinn struggled to pick a facial expression, and wound up with an unattractive combination of several.

"They probably thought we were a couple," Santana remarked.

"Great," Quinn muttered and inched away.

Behind the kids and their two moms, a parade within a parade was making its way down the sidewalk, as six or seven young men in nothing but cutoff jean shorts and rainbow glitter passed by.

It seemed to Quinn there were an awful lot of people here whose gender she was unable to place. It wasn't that she cared one way or the other, it was just that in her experience gender didn't usually require such an active thought process. For example, she surmised that the large figures a few yards to her left with tattoo sleeves and shaved heads were women, but mostly because of the lack of facial hair. She gazed down self-consciously at her flowy blue skirt and short-sleeved button-down blouse.

Catching herself, she quickly looked back up, lest Santana suspect her thought process. She may have inadvertently internally admitted that Santana might be sort of right about her wardrobe.

_Oh God_, Quinn thought, alarm bells suddenly going off in her head. _Eye contact_. She'd been craning her neck, trying to see if Rachel and Brittany were coming back yet. But she'd managed to make eyes at some college-aged girl in a t-shirt and basketball shorts.

The girl, who clearly had been waiting for Quinn's eyes to brush across her, smiled as soon as they did. She started toward Quinn and Santana with a macho gait that wouldn't have been out of place in a rap video. Quinn whipped her phone from her purse so fast it was like her life depended on it.

"Hey," the girl said, holding out her hand to Quinn. "I'm Mary Beth."

"Hey!" Quinn said cheerfully, into her phone. She made an apologetic smile at her new friend, and turned her back on the girl. "Yeah, sweetie, I'm still by the hardware store. Are you on your way back?"

"Oh, I see," Mary Beth said, her hand dropping to her side. "Real nice. You know," she said stepping forward to get back into Quinn's line of sight, "You're really beautiful. But you really need to work on your people skills."

"Hey, Mary Beth," Santana said when the girl turned to her instead. "I'm Santana. You'll have to excuse my friend Quinn, here. We've been trying to surgically remove that stick from her ass for five years with no luck."

"Does she always use fake phone calls to ward off women?"

"Usually she uses her personality."

Mary Beth smiled. "You here with anyone?"

"My girlfriend Brittany should be back any minute now," she said apologetically.

"Lucky girl," said Mary Beth. "All right, well, y'all enjoy the parade. BYE QUINN!"

"Bye," Santana smiled.

"It's not funny, Santana," Quinn said through gritted teeth as Santana's shoulders shook. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Well you could try not being a total bitch, for one."

"Like you're not a bitch when people hit on you."

"I'm only a bitch if they deserve it. That girl was totally polite until you were rude to her."

"Hold my hand," Quinn demanded.

"Fuck off."

Quinn grabbed at Santana's hand, finding it on the third try.

"Okay, this shit doesn't make it look like we're together," Santana said, staring down at Quinn's fingers wrapped around her wrist. "It looks like you're about to take me home to the murder room you have in your basement."

"Whatever scares people away," Quinn muttered.

Santana sighed and leaned backwards against the wall. Quinn kept Santana's wrist in her hand and silently prayed for time to pass really, really quickly, and carefully avoided looking at anyone's face.

At long last, Brittany and Rachel appeared, Brittany sporting a headband of rainbow feathers and a pair of rainbow flags painted on her cheeks.

"You guys look weird," Brittany said, surveying the scene. "I brought you a flag," she said to Santana, handing her a tiny rainbow flag on a plastic stick.

"Thanks, Britt," Santana said, taking it from her. "Hey Berry, your girlfriend got hit on."

"Really?" Rachel asked, wide-eyed. "Was she pretty?"

"Don't worry, she got the ice bitch treatment," Santana said.

"That explains why she's touching you," Rachel observed.

Quinn dropped Santana's wrist.

"Baby, you should see," Brittany said as Rachel eyed Quinn warily. "They have a dance tent over by the lemonade stand, so Rachel and I went in to check it out, and these guys – at least, I think they were guys – they invited me to come on their float and dance in the parade. They said you could come too, but we have to hurry, 'cause they were about to start."

"You should go, Santana," Rachel encouraged. "They were fabulous."

"Britt . . . I'm not sure that's my thing."

"Pleeease? I don't want to go without you, Santana."

"Brittany. . ." Santana said warily.

"Please, Santana?" Brittany asked more gently. "This is a safe place. I swear it. Everybody is here to have fun, and they have police all along the parade route. And anyway, almost everyone here is like us."

Santana looked at Rachel, who smiled encouragingly.

"I'm so going to regret this."

"Yesss! All the lesbians are totally going to storm the float when they see you up there. It's going to be awesome," Brittany said, leading Santana back in the direction she came from.

Rachel watched them go, a huge grin on her face. _Santana's come such a long way already_, she thought.

She turned to face Quinn, still grinning – until she saw the look on Quinn's face.

"Are you having any fun at all?" Rachel asked optimistically.

"Do I look like I'm having fun?"

"No, not especially."

"When do we get to leave? Is it soon?"

"Quinn, the parade is just starting. Pride is kind of an all-day thing. And we . . . I promised to help my dads at the free condom and HIV info booth. I thought you could come with me. It's a really great cause, and we can hand out those flyers we were making."

Quinn shook her head and Rachel felt her stomach sink.

"Quinn, I have to admit I don't know what to do right now," she said. "My dads are counting on me."

"Are they? Or is this about what _you_want to be doing?"

"If you'd come with me I think you'd see it's a big job, running that tent."

"Look, Rachel?" Quinn started, trying to keep her voice as low as the din of the parade would allow. "I'm not comfortable here, all right? I didn't grow up with two gay dads, and I haven't been sleeping with my best friend for four years. I don't fit in with these people."

"Quinn, 'these people?'" Rachel repeated. "Look, Quinn, you may not look like them or act like them, but I think it's fair to say that you do have something important in common with them. Being here is a chance to celebrate that."

"I'm not in the mood to celebrate."

By the look on Quinn's face, it was clear that she meant it. Rachel stood firm, her eyes sad but her fists clenched at her sides.

"Okay, whatever. I can't be here anymore," Quinn said, ending the standoff. "If you can't leave I'm going to find a Starbucks or something. Text me when it's time to go home."

She turned on her heel and began pushing her way through the crowd. She didn't wait for any further discussion and didn't leave Rachel with a goodbye.

Rachel leaned back against the brick wall of the hardware store and put her head in her hands.

...

The drive home from Columbus to Lima was less than two hours long, but Quinn's shoulders locked up tight only half an hour in. She kept moving her hands from the top to the bottom of the steering wheel, trying to at least transfer the tension to different parts of her muscles. It didn't really help.

It was the one saving grace that the car was quiet. Santana and Brittany were all into each other, snuggled up in the back seat, and thank God for that. If she had to hear Santana mouthing off or Brittany babbling nonsense right now, she would fucking snap. As in, this car would be in the drainage ditch next to them instead of between the white lines on the asphalt.

Rachel was staring sullenly at the road ahead. Oh, she was definitely pissed, but that was fine, too. Let her sulk – it meant quiet, quiet, quiet. Quinn passed car after car, weaving between the right and left lanes to pass anyone going less than 70mph.

Santana and Brittany got out of the car at Brittany's house with barely a word of goodbye, groping each other the whole way up the sidewalk. Quinn turned away in disgust, ready to leave tire tracks from taking off so fast.

She reached for the gear shift by her right thigh, but Rachel's hand was already there.

"Stop."

Quinn turned to look at her, her eyes shooting daggers. She was NOT in the mood to be hindered.

"Quinn, what's going on?" Rachel asked.

"Nothing." She eyed the gear shift under Rachel's hand pointedly.

"Don't give me that," Rachel said.

Quinn's heart skipped a beat. _Oh. So she was going to push?_

"Move your hand," Quinn said, her voice quivering.

"No. Talk to me, Quinn."

Quinn felt like all the air was being sucked out of the car, that the walls were all closer than they had been a second ago.

_Rachel, please don't do this to me. I need to go, I just need to go._

Rachel took a shaky breath. "Quinn, look, you can't just take out your upsetness on me, okay? If there's something wrong, you need to talk to me, not snap at me."

Quinn's mind raced a million miles an hour, just fast enough to keep pace with her heartbeat. She couldn't, COULD NOT, handle a fight right now.

"Quinn," Rachel said again, gently. "What's wrong?"

_I am trapped. She has me trapped. I have to open this car door and run. _

But her body was as frozen as her words, her eyes steely and fixed out the front window.

_Rachel, really? 'What's wrong?'_

Was she really supposed to answer that? And answer it how? With the mess in her head? The mess of rainbow flags, rainbow flyers, Christian men, little girls with folded hands, church ladies, lesbians with babies, college girls in basketball shorts, Santana openly checking out girls, Santana and Brittany kissing on a public street? Or some of the million other things that were currently conspiring to make the skin on her back crawl?

"_What's wrong?"_

"Quinn," Rachel started again, and Quinn wanted to scream on that syllable alone. "I can't help you if you don't tell me how."

_TELL YOU HOW?_

Oh God, she felt like she was falling. This wasn't her Rachel, it wasn't, it wasn't. Her Rachel understood, her Rachel forgave her. What was she doing?

Noticing a tear sliding from each of Quinn's eyes, Rachel moved her hand from the gear shift to Quinn's shoulder.

"I know you're upset Quinn. I know it's been a difficult few days. But you can't take that it out on me, Quinn, it's not fair. I was so excited about today, and it was ruined. And Quinn, I don't think I did anything to deserve that. We're on the same team, okay? We need to act like it."

_Oh Jesus, now a lecture?_ How could Rachel not see that she couldn't take one more word, that she was beaten? Quinn wanted to die, to just, curl up and make it stop.

_How, how, how, Rachel, are you making this about you? _

"Quinn, I'm just trying to be honest and share my feelings. Because we'll never make it if we don't do that, Quinn. It's the only way we'll move forward."

_I think I'm drowning. _

Quinn wobbled in her seat. Open the door and throw up, or shift into drive and go?

Quinn put her hand on the gear shift and peeled away from the curb so fast it pushed Rachel back in her seat.

"Quinn, slow down," Rachel said breathlessly as Quinn hit fifty five on Brittany's residential street.

_Fuck you, Rachel._

She had Rachel to her doorstep in less than five minutes. Rachel slammed the car door and ran to her front porch without saying another word.

**...  
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**Sunday, July 24 / 9:42pm**

"Britt."

Brittany stared blankly at the television.

"Hey, Britt."

Brittany finally snapped to attention the third time Santana called her name.

"Why are you so spacey lately?"

"I don't know," Brittany shrugged, gaze falling on Rachel, who was curled up asleep on the couch between them.

Santana followed her line of sight.

"If you have any ideas, I'd be glad to hear them," she said.

"Maybe we should call Kurt," Brittany said. "Don't they like a lot of the same stuff?"

...

"So can you, like, do something Barbra-related to cheer her up?" Santana asked after she finished explaining the situation to Kurt. She paced the floor in Brittany's kitchen, out of Rachel's earshot.

"Mmmm," Kurt said pensively. "I'm afraid that's not the trick this time. Think back, Santana. What pulled me out of my funk over Finn? Liking Sam. What cheered me up when that crashed and burned? Meeting Blaine. And what did you do while Brittany inexplicably eschewed your affections in favor of Artie's?"

"Well . . . I did Rachel." Santana paused, thinking. "So what are you suggesting, we hire her a hooker?"

"Uhh, nooo," Kurt clarified. "I'm suggesting we take her fishing. The sooner we get her out there, the sooner Rachel will see that Quinn ain't the only scary, hot blonde in the sea."

"But where? There's not exactly a scene for gay kids in Lima. Is there?"

"Wednesday night. Sixteen and over night at The Pink Pegasus in Toledo. Blaine will drive; we'll pick you three up at 8. Oh, and Santana? Make sure you run interference on Rachel's attire. Blaine and I have a reputation to uphold."

**...  
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**Wednesday, July 27 / 7:48pm**

"This is the first time I've worn makeup in a week," Rachel remarked as Santana worked her mascara magic on Rachel's lashes. "I suppose that's progress, right?" she asked wearily.

"Quit blinking," Santana said.

"I like your outfit," Rachel said shyly. "I meant to tell you that when you came to get me, but it depressed me because I was in a hoodie and Mickey Mouse slippers."

"And now that you're in my clothes you feel free to check me out?" Santana asked, not bothering to hide her amusement.

"You have a way with jeans and a tank top, that's all I meant," Rachel said, blushing just a little.

"Well I'm wearing a jacket too, Berry, so hopefully you'll be able to control yourself."

"Hey guys," Brittany said, knocking on the bathroom doorframe.

"It's about time," Santana said, "You were supposed to— wait, why aren't you dressed?" she asked as she turned to see Brittany in yoga pants and a t-shirt.

"I decided not to go," Brittany said.

"Yeah, I see that. Why?"

"I just don't feel like it," she shrugged. "And I have some stuff to do. But you look super hot," she said, kissing Santana's lips. "All the girls are gonna love you." Santana smiled despite herself.

"You guys are so lucky," Rachel sighed. "Do you know that Quinn never called me hot? Not once."

"You look super hot, too, Rachel," Brittany said, and kissed Rachel on the forehead.

"Of course she does," Santana said, trying to play it cool to cover the fact that her heart had just melted into a puddle. "She's wearing my black dress. That thing is incapable of failing to get you action, Berry. Trust me."

"Rachel, Kurt says when you see the dancers they hire for the tables you won't even remember . . . you know who," Brittany said.

"All right though, no more talking about she-who-shall-not-be-named," Santana chastised. "That's it, y'hear?"

"Fine with me," Rachel said.

"All right, Berry, you're done. Get outta my way now."

Rachel smiled and retreated into Santana's room.

"Are you mad?" Brittany asked Santana as she finished touching up her own makeup.

"I guess not, if you really don't want to go. I was kind of looking forward to it though. You know, like, dancing with you. It was fun at the parade, or whatever."

Brittany smiled. "Well, they have it every month, right? What if I promise we can go next month, just the two of us?"

"I guess if it isn't totally lame."

"Will you come over when you get home? Just text me and I'll come down and let you in."

"Okay," Santana agreed with a smile.

Blaine honked from the curb outside right on cue, and Brittany kissed Santana good-bye.

...

"What did Brittany mean by 'stuff to do'?" Rachel asked as they closed Santana's front door behind them.

"No idea," Santana said.

"So you brought a flask, right?" Rachel asked earnestly. Santana pulled aside the left side of her bra to reveal a glimpse of metallic silver.

"Excellent," Rachel said. "That, combined with the much larger one I have in the false bottom of my purse should be just enough to get me through the evening."

Blaine whistled as the girls climbed into the back seat. "Lookin' good, ladies," he said.

"Where's Britt?" Kurt asked, puzzled.

"She decided not to come," Santana said, already tired of that question.

"I'm depressing her," Rachel said.

Santana's head snapped to the right to look over at Rachel.

"All right, next stop, Puckerman's," Blaine announced as he pulled away from the curb.

"Why?" Rachel and Santana asked in unison.

"He's coming with us," Kurt smiled. "Him, Sam, and Mike are tagging along. It's for moral support."

"Okay, now I'm excited," Rachel said, grinning.

"Not Finn, right?" Santana asked, leaning forward, ready to wrap her fingers around Kurt's neck.

"I'm not an idiot, Santana," Kurt replied.

Behind him, Rachel took her first swig of vodka.

...

"Damn, moral support is expensive," Puck said as they all gathered in the entranceway of The Pink Pegasus, just beyond the cash register and next to the bar.

"Thanks for spotting me, man," Sam said. "I'll get you back once it rains and I get my next lawn mowing job."

"No problem, dude," Puck said, smacking him on the back. "Just means you're my bitch for the night."

"You like, might not want to say that here," Sam said, glancing around them.

"I did it!" Rachel said, finally rejoining the group after a very long purse rearrangement procedure. "I got it in! I am such a BADASS."

"Rachel, people can hear you," Santana said. "God, we have got to keep you away from the bartenders and bouncers. You smell like you took a damn bath in a vodka martini."

"Sorry, I got excited," she apologized in a stage whisper. "Kurt, Blaine! Who are these hotties?" she asked, making a beeline for the group of guys at the bar.

"Hey Rachel," Blaine said, turning around, as the rest of the group shuffled over uncomfortably. "These are our friends, Todd and Ethan, Jarrod and Ryan, and Terrance and Raymond."

Santana would never remember any of that, but she had to admit that it really was something to see. Kurt and Blaine had like. . . friends. Really, REALLY gay ones. Like, _air kisses_ gay.

"How do you guys know each other?" she asked. "Do you all go to Dalton or something?"

"I used to," Ethan raised his hand enthusiastically. "I was a senior when Blaine came in as a freshman. He totally stole all my solos, but he was so adorable I barely even minded. Now I go to Toledo with all these bozos."

"Toledo?" Santana asked.

"Class of 2015," he said with a smile.

"So your turn, Rachel," Ethan continued. "Who are _these_ hotties?"

Rachel smiled. "This is Santana. And these are our friends Puck, Sam, and Mike."

"Puck, huh?" Jarrod said with a wink. "Sounds mischievous."

"It totally is," Rachel said, as Puck tried to look less uncomfortable.

"Let's get some sodas," Rachel said enthusiastically. "I need mixers."

"Rachel, seriously, can it," Santana hissed at her. "If you get us tossed before I see those damn table dancers, I'm gonna be so pissed at you."

They scored a booth along the back wall as another group was getting up and heading for the dance floor. Rachel, Santana, Puck, Mike, and Sam all piled in, and Rachel surreptitiously poured vodka into her Diet Coke under the table. Santana and Puck stared at a pair of girls making out on the dance floor.

"So who wants to dance?" Rachel asked enthusiastically three minutes later, slamming down her empty glass.

"I'll dance with you," Puck said.

"Excellent. Let's go, Noah," Rachel said, and began shoving Santana aside to get out of the booth.

"Keep your hands to yourself, Puckerman," Santana warned as the two of them walked toward the dance floor.

"I think I'm gonna dance, too," Mike said.

"Oh man, we're never gonna be able to get him home once he starts dancing," Sam smiled, before turning back around and realizing that the only remaining person at the table was Santana. "Um, I'm going to go . . . get another Sprite. Do you want something?" he said, awkwardly downing the remaining third of his glass, realizing he should have gone with the men's room as his escape route instead.

Santana glanced at her nearly-full glass of Diet Coke. "I'm good, thanks Lips."

Santana sighed to herself as she watched her friends scatter to different corners of the club. A few yards away on the dance floor, Rachel seemed to be having a good time, at least – though with that amount of alcohol in that tiny little person, that was bound to happen. They would have to keep a good eye on her; a broken heart and a bottle of vodka could be a messy combination.

Sam came back, sliding resignedly into the booth next to Santana. "The service is, like, really fast here," he said disappointedly.

Santana scowled at him. She really should have had some foresight with the whole cheating on him with Berry thing, because this was starting to get awkward.

"Rachel seems good tonight," he said, after fiddling uncomfortably with his straw paper for a while. "I think it was a good idea to get her out of the house."

"Yeah, well, she's cried all over every surface of mine and Brittany's houses," Santana said. "It was time."

"So, has anyone checked on Quinn?" he asked. "She wasn't in church this week, so."

"She's ignoring me," Santana said with a shrug.

"It's just, you're being such a good friend to Rachel. I hope someone is taking care of Quinn."

"You can only take care of Quinn when she lets you," Santana said. "You know that."

He pursed his lips and nodded gently.

"So you're dating Wee—uh, Mercedes?" she said, trying to stave off an awkward silence.

"How did you know about that?" he asked, lowering his head and his voice.

"Uhh, maybe because you're about as subtle as Kurt's gold sparkling bow tie."

"We just had our six-week anniversary," he beamed. "It's going so great."

"Wooo, yay."

"Like it or not, I have you to thank," he continued. "If she hadn't felt so bad for me after you embarrassed me in front of the whole Glee Club. . . twice . . . it might never have happened."

"You're welcome," Santana said, and they descended back into silence.

"Umm, what's going on out there?" Sam said suddenly, leaning out of the booth for a better view of the dance floor.

"What?" Santana said, elbowing him out of the way.

"I think Rachel and Puck are getting bounced."

It appeared that at the center of the dance floor, things were heating up between Rachel and Puck. His hands on her ass didn't look good, but it was probably his pelvic thrusting that crossed the line.

"Hey, HEY, that's enough," the female bouncer was saying as she stuck her arm between them. "This is supposed to be a safe place. Take that to the twenty other clubs where it ain't a big deal."

She shooed them from the dance floor and they slunk back to the booth with their tails between their legs.

"Worth it," Puck said as he sat down.

Santana punched him in the arm. "What did I say?"

"If I weren't drunk I'd probably be really embarrassed right now," Rachel said cheerily.

"Dude, did you get any pictures?" Puck asked Sam.

"Dude, why would I take pictures of that?"

"You all right, Berry?" Santana asked, still glaring at Puck.

Rachel was already distracted. "Oh my gosh, look at Mike," she said, covering her hand with her mouth.

They followed her indication to the dance floor, where Mike was shirtless, sweaty, and gyrating with an equally shirtless, most definitely homosexual guy.

"Now this, I'm taking pictures of," Sam said, pulling out his phone.

"They're like four feet apart," Puck said, scoffing. "He likes to dance, what's the big deal?"

"Jealous much, Puckerman?" Santana smirked.

"Uh, dude, what's she talking about?" Sam asked.

"Mike is Noah's big, gay crush," Santana clarified, "Second only to his man-wife, Finn."

"Shut it, Lopez."

"He threw you off a cliff," she added, sticking her chin out at Sam. "Now gets up, I'm getting another round."

"Get me a Diet Coke!" Rachel yelled enthusiastically.

"But he's totally leading that guy on!" she could hear Puck saying as she walked toward the bar.

...

"Can I buy you a drink?"

The voice came from her right as she waited at the bar for her their Diet Cokes.

The girl was smokin', with dreadlocked hair and dark skin, and barely any clothing covering it. Santana's cheeks felt immediately hot.

"Uhhh, thank you. . .I mean, no thank you," she said shyly, "I'm with someone."

"Who, that little brunette that was mackin' on that dude a minute ago?"

This girl had been watching her, Santana realized, as a little flutter rose in her stomach.

"No, that's. . . she's just my friend," she said. "My girlfriend is at home."

"What, she let you out looking like that?"

"I guess so," she shrugged. "But thank you," she said again as the bartender handed her the drinks she'd ordered and she slipped past the girl back toward the table, smiling to herself.

Kurt and Blaine and two of their gays had joined the booth when Santana got back. Santana didn't really speak glitter, so she tuned them out. Rachel spiked and downed her drink in the span of about ninety seconds.

"I want to dance with Sam!" she announced, grabbing his hand.

"You might regret that," he said, but followed her to the floor.

"What up, S-Lo?" Puck said, raising an eyebrow. "You haven't been out there yet."

"I'll go," she said, "But if you try that shit you pulled with Berry you're going home with your balls in your back pocket."

...

Santana was not a fan of the music they liked to play at this club. It somehow managed to sound like disco, bad 80's pop, and musical theater all at the same time. Even the Kanye remixes sounded gay.

But she had to admit, between the table dancers (who finally showed up as promised) and the sight of Puck and Sam bouncing around like giant flannel yetis amid the skinny, preened queer boys, this was actually kind of fun. And Berry seemed good. Maybe not happy, exactly, but determined in that Berry way to have a good time.

She really, really wished Brittany were here.

But for now, there was Puck. He jumped in place a lot, and all of his signature moves revolved around air guitar and ridiculous faces, but he was fun. She let him put his hands on her hips and her back as they danced. It wasn't even weird. It felt kind of comfortable, actually – like friends having a good time.

Next to them, Sam twirled Rachel by the hand until she doubled over in laughter and fell against him. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, Santana leaned in.

"Berry, knock it off. You'll draw the heterosexuality police again."

Rachel withdrew her arms from Sam and whirled around, smiling big at Santana. Santana smiled back, and let Rachel wrap her arms around her instead.

...

Back at the table, Puck and Sam sat down, out of breath.

"Our turn," Kurt said, sashaying out to the dance floor with Blaine in tow.

"It just ain't fair, man," Puck said to Sam, as they watched Rachel grind against Santana as Santana laughed on the dance floor.

"Either of you boys want to dance?"

Puck and Sam pried their eyes away from their dancing friends to find a college boy in a t-shirt and skinny jeans standing next to their table.

"Oh, uhh. . . sorry, man, we have to stay with our friends' stuff," Sam said apologetically, gesturing to the purses and jackets strewn across the booth.

"How 'bout you?" the boy asked Puck.

"I. . . can't. It's a package deal," Puck said. "We're. . . you know, we're together."

"The two of you are a couple?" gay boy asked skeptically.

"Totally," Puck said, taking hold of Sam's hand. "He's my boyfriend so we only dance together. Sorry."

"It's true," Sam said, shrugging. "I'm his bitch tonight."

"Ugh, whatever."

"A package deal?" Sam said incredulously after their suitor was out of earshot. "You couldn't have just said we were straight?"

"Dude, I panicked!" Puck exclaimed. "Now get off me so we can watch the chicks make out. Whoa, wait a second -"

"Oh, this is not good," Sam said, gazing at Santana and Rachel on the dance floor.

...

It had been weeks since Rachel felt so good. Her head was dizzy and the music was loud, and her hands were on Santana's hips, which were moving like a lot inside her jeans. Rachel turned around, dancing, pressing her ass into Santana's hips. Santana laughed.

Rachel wasn't sure what was funny about it, but she didn't really care to know. She raised her hands above her head and encircled Santana's neck.

"You always make me feel better," she murmured, leaning her head back to speak into Santana's neck.

"What, Berry?" Santana said, leaning her ear downward. "I can't hear you, it's loud."

Rachel turned her head to say it again.

And then there was a situation. Her chin bumped into Santana's cheek. Which meant that Santana's lips were _right there_.

And the only thing that went through Rachel's head was, _Oh,this is going to feel really, really good_.

As Santana waited for Rachel to repeat what she said, Rachel pressed her parted lips against Santana's and slid her tongue inside her mouth.

Santana inhaled sharply in surprise, and her hands pressed reflexively into Rachel's stomach.

Rachel was encouraged by it, by the pressure of Santana's fingertips. She turned herself around so they were face to face, and ran the palms of her hands up Santana's sides.

Santana still smelled the same. Rachel noticed herself thinking that thought somewhere at the back of her mind, before the all-encompassing need to have her tongue wrapped around Santana's blurred every other thought out of existence.

Rachel whimpered and pulled Santana tight with one hand at the small of her back and the other behind her neck.

It felt so, utterly _right_ – this dull pulse of heartbreak in the pit of her stomach, melded with the scandalous feel of Santana Lopez pressed against her. The flares of righteous anger in her chest at being pushed away, allayed by the relief of Santana's fingernails digging into the skin of her lower back.

Kissing Santana, it came with all of these distant-but-not memories, not explicit ones but of the gut variety, and they were bad memories of rejection and sadness, but they were perfect for right at this moment. Perfect for kissing Santana to the blaring music, while she was drunk, and clumsy, and enthusiastic.

She needed more. She pulled Santana harder against her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: ** So I realized I should point out that in a previous chapter, in the FMK game, the choice to include Sofia Vergara in the game was one I made back in June or July, before the gif-makers of the fandom cast her as Santana's mother. Thus, my choice was not meant to be either "meta" or borderline incestuous. (I just feel better having that off my chest.)

**Author's Note 2:** I always swore I would not coddle readers by warning them ahead of time when segments of my stories were angsty or otherwise difficult to get through, even though with this particular story I keep getting reviews/comments/asks pointing out "But they're all being so AWFUL!"

Then I showed this chapter to my girlfriend last night, and she called me "demonic" and refused to sit in the living room with me for an hour. So here you go: This chapter might have sad things. (It might also have some really happy things. You might have to read it to find out.)**  
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* * *

><p><strong>Monday, July 4  2:30pm**

In what was surely one of the more surreal experiences of the summer so far, Santana was following Rachel down the poorly-lit central corridor of the Humphrey Hall of Medical Sciences at Ohio University, clutching Brittany's hand for security.

"This place is freakin' creepy," she muttered, putting into words what all three of them were thinking.

"Totally. Rachel, please tell me we won't meet a radioactive chimpanzee."

"Very few research institutions in the US still work with chimpanzees, Brittany," Rachel replied. "You're way more likely to encounter a transgenic mouse or rat than a mutant monkey."

"Oh," Brittany said, rising to her tiptoes and drawing closer to Santana.

"Anyway, the hallway is only creepy because it's a holiday and there's no one around," Rachel continued. "You should see it like the day Quinn first brought me here, full of college students. Imagine it brimming with life, with eager young minds waiting to be filled with knowledge!"

"If you keep using words like eager, young, and filled, Berry, I'm going to think you have something else on your mind besides knowledge."

"Dirtiest mind ever," Rachel sighed.

Brittany tickled Santana's sides. "I like your mind."

"So what does Quinn actually do here, anyway?" Santana asked, squirming out of Brittany's reach. "And why does she have to do it on the fourth of July?" She peeked into each doorway they passed, in morbid hopes that she would see something explode.

"I don't know, exactly_,_" Rachel admitted. "Something about using glowing molecules to see otherwise invisible things in brain cells. Apparently if she misses a day in the procedure she can ruin a week's worth of work – I've already gotten the 'biology doesn't care that it's a weekend' speech several times now. It seems like a lot of responsibility, but also quite resume-worthy."

"That is some serious hard core nerd shit," Santana said, mildly disgusted. "When did this even happen?"

"I'm not sure about that either," Rachel said. "I can't say Quinn ever seemed all that enamored with biology to me, but you know how she is when faced with a challenge. In any case, whether it's keen interest or her competitive nature, something is keeping her here nearly triple the amount of hours she's required to work to get credit for the project."

"So how can you be sure she'll be willing to leave right now?"

"I'm not," Rachel said, stopping and turning to face Santana. "I'm not at all. But things have been terrible between us, Santana. I have to try something."

"Well, if she doesn't like this idea she's a total asshole, so."

Rachel smiled appreciatively at Santana's version of reassurance.

"This is it," she said, pushing open a heavy brown door.

They filed into the lab cautiously, Rachel leading the way.

"Quinn?" Rachel called out.

They saw her before she saw them. She was standing at a lab bench with her back to the door, hunched over whatever it was she was doing. She was wearing a knee-length white coat and enormous goggles, and her hair was pulled back, Cheerios-style.

"Oh sweet baby Jesus," Santana muttered. "Where's my phone? This is madness. This is madness that needs to be on Facebook."

Quinn jumped, and whirled around at the sound of Santana's voice.

"What are you doing here?" she asked angrily, ripping off her goggles as soon as she noticed Santana taking pictures.

"I wanted to surprise you," Rachel smiled. She walked up to Quinn and put her arms around her shoulders.

"Rachel, I could get in trouble for this," Quinn said, removing Rachel's arms from around her. "It's a safety liability."

"Who's going to tell? You said you'd be the only one here today!"

Brittany hovered above Quinn's experimental setup on the lab bench. "What is this stuff, Quinn?"

"Don't touch it," Quinn said, turning toward Brittany, "It's. . . it's called immunohistochemistry."

"In what language?" Brittany asked in an awed whisper.

"In English," Quinn smirked. "See those little gray splotches in the glass dishes? Those are pieces of a mouse's brain."

Brittany's excited expression fell. She quickly took two steps backwards, retreating to Santana's side.

"That is disgusting, Q," Santana said. "Where do you keep the barf bags? I need one."

"Now, Santana," Rachel said, "As a vegan, I will admit to having some initial difficulty with the nature of Quinn's work, but when you consider the medical advances that have been made this way, you must realize—"

"Hey Quinn!" a voice came from the adjoining room, cutting off Rachel's lecture. "Do you know where Doctor Henry left the microscope key?"

Through the doorway from the adjoining lab, came a tall, fuzzy-haired student of about 21.

"Oh," he said, surprised. "Sorry, Quinn, didn't mean to interrupt," he apologized with a charming smile.

Quinn smiled back at him. "Doug, these are my friends, Santana, Brittany, and Rachel." She stepped backwards from Rachel, placing herself between Santana and Brittany. "Guys, this is Doug, an undergraduate researcher in the lab."

"I would shake your hands," he said, holding up his right hand to show them his purple gloves, "but then your hands would smell like latex all day."

Santana snickered.

"So Quinn, are your friends all budding scientists, too?" he continued. "We can always use more cheap labor around here."

"You mean slave labor?" Quinn replied. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't think you want any of them around your experiments. Not that your experiments ever work, anyway," she added with a teasing smile.

Santana officially did not like this Doug character or the vibes she was picking up when Quinn spoke to him.

Doug placed his purple-gloved hand over his heart. "That hurts," he said. "Hey, just because you caught on in like an hour doesn't mean you can look down upon us mere mortals."

"What can I say? When you're good, you're good," Quinn said with a nonchalant wave of her hand, grinning, until she caught sight of Santana's glare.

"Well, anyway," Doug continued. "I'll get out of your hair. Quinn, I'll be at the microscope if you get any cool results you want to show me. Nice meeting you ladies."

"Likewise," Rachel called after him with a smile.

"I thought you told Rachel you would be the only one here today," Santana said as Doug exited the room.

"I thought I was. He won't tell my boss, if that's what you're worried about," she added after a pause.

"It's not."

"Anyway," Rachel said, taking hold of Quinn's forearms and pulling her to the center of the room. "There's a reason that we're here, Quinn. Brittany, can I have the thing now, please?"

Brittany reached into her purse and retrieved a tiny jewelry box.

Rachel cleared her throat, smoothed her hair and straightened her shirt and skirt. She took the box from Brittany, and dropped to one knee.

"Rachel, what . . ." Quinn said, her eyes darting around the room.

"Quinn, I know things have been hard lately, for you and for us," Rachel said, gazing up at Quinn from her spot on the floor. "And I know you've been sad. I'm here to tell you I want to make that go away. I want to make it go away for at least for one, perfect night. Quinn, there's a place I used to go with my dads on the Fourth of July, a beach, and it's one of my favorite places on earth."

Rachel opened the jewelry box and Quinn reached forward to take the folded-up piece of paper that rested inside.

She unfolded it to reveal the torn-off front page of a park brochure.

"East Harbor State Park?"

"Quinn Fabray," Rachel said sincerely, "Will you go see the fireworks with me tonight?"

"So stupid," Santana muttered, dabbing her eye with the knuckle of her index finger.

The wrinkled disapproval on Quinn's face smoothed itself into a soft smile.

"I think. . ." she said, smiling down at Rachel, "I think that sounds like fun."

..

Rachel, Santana, and Brittany waited in the courtyard outside the building as Quinn finished up her work for the day.

"You look so pretty," Rachel said as Quinn emerged from the building half an hour later, sans white coat and goggles.

"You're full of it," Quinn said, but let Rachel take her hand. "Also, this isn't exactly beach attire," she pointed out, gesturing down at her long pants and sneakers.

"Not to worry. I stopped at your house and got all of your stuff – sundress, bathing suit, towels, flip flops, sweater for when it gets cold. Everything you need."

Quinn furrowed her brow. "My mother let you up in my room? She barely knows who you are."

"I made Brittany stop on the way and asked her to go in. I figured that was the best option since you're always telling me Judy doesn't trust Santana."

"Wait, what?" Santana asked.

"Brittany is driving?" Quinn whispered alarmedly at Rachel, ignoring Santana's distress. "Is that safe?"

"It's at least as safe as Santana driving," Rachel whispered back. "Relax, Quinn. This will be fun."

..

"Okay we need some food," Santana said, after they had been in the car for approximately four minutes.

"No no, that's taken care of too! I packed a picnic dinner for when we get there," Rachel said brightly.

"It's a two-hour trip," Santana reminded her. "Do you know how long Britts and I worked out this morning? I needs to refuel for the drive."

"I want chicken nuggets," Brittany informed the car.

Fifteen minutes later, the car smelled of McDonald's and they were merging onto I-75 towards Lake Erie. Rachel and Quinn held hands in the back seat, gazing out the window. In the front seat, Santana held a box of French fries on the middle armrest so Brittany could reach into them while she drove.

"Oooh! I almost forgot," Rachel said, bolting upright. "I made an official Fourth of July road trip mix. If you'll do the honors and hook this up, Santana," Rachel said, handing forward her iPod. "We can shuffle the mix entitled 'Americana.'"

"Oh, hell no," Santana said, skipping ahead when the first track played. "Berry, I don't know what this is, but I draw the line at banjo."

"It's called bluegrass, Santana," Rachel said witheringly. "It's a uniquely American genre."

"It is uniquely terrible."

"Fine. But if you give it a chance, you'll find that rock 'n roll, hip hop, rap, and country are all heavily-represented in this playlist," Rachel frowned. "As well as some of the finest American musical theater of our time."

"Umm, is this Led Zeppelin?" Quinn asked as the next track began.

"Yeah, why?" Santana asked, checking Rachel's iPod.

"Rachel, you know they're British, right?"

"What? No, that can't be right. Their songs are in all those commercials for those gigantic pickup trucks that only people in America buy."

"It's okay, Rach," Quinn said, patting her on the arm. "It's the patriotic spirit that counts."

..

Two and a half hours later, after a series of rest stop breaks (because Brittany drank too much Diet Dr Pepper), they pulled into a parking lot at the East Harbor State Park on the southwest shore of Lake Erie.

"Help me get the cooler!" Rachel chirped at Quinn as they disembarked from the car. "I brought PB&J, chips and salsa, potato salad, and chocolate chip cookies."

"And I brought the weed," Santana said, pulling a plastic bag out of her pocket and dangling it in Rachel's face.

"So did I," said Quinn, unzipping her purse and pulling out her own plastic bag.

"Hey, that's not my shit," Santana said, grabbing it. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"What? I know college people now," Quinn said.

"Okay, it's gonna be a good day," Santana proclaimed, grabbing the blankets and Brittany's hand and galloping toward the beach.

"Don't worry, we'll handle the cooler," Quinn said wryly to their backs.

"It's okay," Rachel said, smiling at Quinn. "PB&J isn't that heavy."

They took either side of the cooler and made their way to the blankets that Brittany and Santana were laying out on the sand.

"Does she really need sunscreen?" Quinn asked Santana, who was massaging Brittany's shoulders. "It's six-thirty PM."

"Shhhh," Santana mouthed silently, running her hands over Brittany's lower back.

The beach was about as crowded as one would expect for a fourth of July evening. It seemed like everyone was well into their day of revelry, judging by the peals of laughter ringing out across the beach, the kind that generally only come from those who are working on their fifth or sixth beer.

At the water's edge, families with young children congregated to wade and build sandcastles, and the occasional high-pitched tantrum or squeal of a toddler's delight cut through the lower tones of crowd noise and crashing waves.

The sun wove between the clouds, giving the expanse of the lake in front of them a patchwork pattern of shadow and glittering light. They settled onto their blankets facing the water, legs stretched out in front of them.

"Are you thirsty, Quinn?" Brittany asked, reaching into her purse.

"Sure, thanks," Quinn replied, and Brittany handed her a water bottle.

Quinn took a sip and her eyes went wide. "Brittany, is that vodka!"

"What did you think it was?"

Quinn gaped at her. But as the burning faded from her tongue and esophagus, it dawned on her that this was not actually a bad thing. She shrugged and took another sip before handing the bottle to Rachel.

It was still hot and humid despite the fact that it was approaching 7PM. After a little wheedling, Rachel and Brittany convinced Quinn and Santana to venture down to the water, where they wove among the families trying to squeeze one last hour of daylight out of their holiday.

"Ready?" Rachel asked Quinn, as the water cascaded over their feet and lapped at their ankles.

"Ha," Quinn said. "This is as far as I go."

"Don't you want to cool off?" Rachel pouted.

"You go ahead," Quinn said with a smile. "I'll watch from here."

"No, see Rachel, you're going about this all wrong," Santana said, eyeing Quinn.

"Don't," Quinn warned.

"Oh, yeah no, don't worry," Santana said, and a split second later kicked enough water at Quinn to completely drench her.

"Bitch," Quinn sputtered. "This is freezing!"

"Hey, would you watch your mouth, you asshat? There are little kids here."

"I guess that's one way to get some personal space," Rachel remarked as nearby parents with small children started to back away.

"Rachel, do they still have the fireworks if it's raining? Cause I just saw lightning," Brittany observed with a frown, just as they waded in up to their waists.

"Yeah but, we should probably get out of the water," Rachel advised.

"Last one to the car doesn't get any weed," Santana said, already halfway back to the sand.

..

It was one of those pop-up, short and angry thunderstorms that likes to show up in mid-summer in Ohio. It was already pouring by the time they made it back to the parking lot with their towels and blankets, and they fell into the car with soaking wet bathing suits and linens full of sand.

"Oh my God, my mom's car," Brittany said, laughing nervously and sweeping the sand from the seats. "I'm in so much trouble."

"Whatever, we'll save her some weed, she'll be fine," Santana waved her off. "Rachel, give me back your terrible music, I'm kind of in the mood for it."

"I'll help you vacuum out the car tomorrow, Brittany," Quinn offered.

"Thanks, Quinn."

"Shit, you're so damn much nicer with hard liquor in your system, Fabray," Santana remarked, smoothing a rolling paper against her knee. "Why don't you just make it official and embrace your alcoholism?"

"At least something works for _me_."

"Santana, turn it down a little, I want to hear the rain," Rachel said, craning her head backwards to watch the raindrops smash against the glass.

"And Berry isn't even high yet," Santana smirked, turning the volume down.

"I think that means I need that vodka," Rachel said. She placed her hand on Quinn's thigh for leverage and leaned forward into the front seat, taking the bottle from Santana's hand.

"Just so you know, Berry, Quinn could not be checking your ass out any harder right now," Santana remarked, following Quinn's eye line as Rachel lowered herself back into the back seat.

"Mind your own business," Quinn said.

"Is it true, Quinn?" Rachel asked with a shy smile.

"Can I just have the water bottle?" Quinn said, rolling her eyes.

"In a minute," Rachel said softly, setting it on the other side of her where Quinn couldn't reach it.

"Rachel, what are you doing?" Quinn asked. She attempted to look cross, but a smile crept onto her face as Rachel leaned in.

"Nothing," Rachel shrugged. She raised her far leg and turned herself around to drape it across Quinn's lap.

"Rachel. . ."

"What?"

Rachel pressed her belly into Quinn's as she adjusted herself into Quinn's lap. Quinn's hands wrapped around Rachel's bare hips.

Rachel held her lips a mere millimeter above Quinn's.

"Stop it," Quinn said unconvincingly.

Rachel brushed Quinn's lips lightly with her own, and Quinn's nails dug into her skin.

"Stop," Quinn giggled, and squirmed like she was being tickled.

Rachel put her hands on either side of Quinn's face and ran the tip of her tongue along Quinn's bottom lip, and Quinn whispered an unintelligible syllable.

"Mmm," Rachel said, and then couldn't wait any longer to kiss her.

"Santana," Brittany said, a moment later.

"Mmm?"

"You're drooling at Rachel and Quinn kissing."

"I am not, I'm. . . watching the rain," Santana protested, snapping her head away from the scene in the back seat to face Brittany's grin. "Hey, horndogs, get a room!" she yelled, reaching backwards to smack Quinn's hands away from Rachel's back.

Rachel peeled herself away from Quinn, grinning with pride at the dazed, dreamy look she left on her face.

Quinn reached forward and hit the head rest of Santana's seat with the heel of her hand. "Give me that joint," she demanded.

Santana's coughed out a puff of smoke as her head bounced off the headrest.

"Ow, Jesus Christ, HERE!"

..

They finished smoking around the same time the storm moved along, leaving a bright yellow and orange sunset in its wake.

"Now that is just ridiculous," Santana said, gesturing out the front window. "Now I have to take a picture of like, nature shit. So lame," she said, snapping pictures with her phone.

"Oh, shoot! Guys, we have to go," Rachel said, sitting up, suddenly realizing the sunset meant darkness, and darkness meant fireworks.

"Go?" Quinn asked dazedly, frowning at the sudden absence of a Rachel draped across her side.

"To where we're gonna watch the fireworks," she clarified.

"I thought you said we could see them from the beach," Santana said.

"I didn't say which beach. Everybody out!"

The air was chilled and damp now, and the tide was coming in, crashing more and more loudly into the sand down at the beach. The families clogging the park an hour ago had scattered, leaving the park or huddling together under the shelters scattered across the beach. The girls threw on wraps, skirts, or hoodies and shook the sand out of their towels. Rachel removed two flashlights from a bag in the trunk and handed one to Santana.

"It's down this trail," she said, heading toward the far side of the parking lot.

"Is she for real?" Santana asked, alarmed. "We're walking into the woods when it's about to get dark?"

"Would you just trust me, Santana? I've done this a million times with my dads. Or, well, twice. And I mean, never at night or by myself, and I hadn't ever had illicit substances first, but I'm sure it'll be completely fine."

They made their way down the paved biking trail for about ten minutes in the fading twilight, past benches, branches of the trail, and display stations more cheerful than anyone should ever be in describing Ohio wildlife.

"It's here," Rachel said, stopping suddenly in her tracks. "This sign about fines for littering marks the spot."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Santana said as Rachel stepped off the trail and into the brush. "We're going in THERE?"

"We're going to the BEACH, Santana. We have to walk toward the lake."

"I don't even know where the fuck we're going right now," Santana grumbled as they made their way through the brush, stepping over roots and tangles that seemed to be reaching up specifically to trip them. Santana detached a rogue prickly branch from the sleeve of her hoodie. "She's bringing us out here to kill us, it's so obvious. This is it, Britt. Let's do it one last time."

"That's not going to happen," Quinn said solemnly from behind Santana.

"What?"

"Brittany's in on it," Quinn continued. "We all are. Rachel's not bringing us out here, we're bringing you."

Rachel giggled and elbowed Quinn. "You're so mean."

"Don't try to giggle and back out now, Rachel, just because you're getting cold feet," Quinn said.

"She's going to start speaking Spanish now," Brittany said. "You're freaking her out."

"I'm not freaked out," Santana argued.

"BOO!" Quinn said, right behind Santana's head. Santana jumped a foot in the air and fell into Brittany's arms.

"Fabray, you are ON my LIST," she said, pointing at Quinn's smirking face with her flashlight. "Imma take you to LHA at 3am and leave you on a corner."

"I'll try to survive the rogue lawn sprinklers."

"We're here," Rachel announced, pushing aside a bundle of branches that was the last remaining obstacle between them and the promised beach.

"You're welcome," she said softly as they stepped out onto the sand.

Rachel's beach was not an island paradise. It was a tiny patch of sand that, after the rainstorm, was muddy and littered with driftwood. But it was beautiful in the last faint glow of sunset, and deserted, and perfectly quiet except for the waves crashing in with a roar.

"Nice work, Berry," Santana conceded as they laid out their blankets.

"I can't believe you found us our own beach," Quinn whispered to Rachel as Rachel settled in against her on the blanket.

"Technically my dads found it," Rachel smiled. "Look, that faint glow over there is Cedar Point."

"Is that where the fireworks are gonna come from?" Brittany asked.

"I think they shoot them from a barge out on the lake."

"Hey, I see one!" Brittany called out, pointing as one red firework exploded in the sky. "Ooooooooh!" she said, drawing out the syllable for several seconds.

"Britt, what was that about?" Santana laughed.

"That's what you're supposed to say. When you see something awesome, you say 'Ooooh!' and 'Aaaahh!'"

As the next firework burst in the air, they all humored Brittany and, in unison, said "Ooooh, aaaahhh!"

"Eeeeeee, Iiiiiii," Santana added.

"Eeeeee, Iiiiii," they all mimicked.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaa, yoooooooooooo," Rachel continued.

"And sometimes Y," Quinn deadpanned.

"And sometimes YYYYYYYYY!" they all yelled together, and Santana fell backwards into the sand in laughter.

"Yo, but these are the lamest fireworks ever," she said, sitting back up. "Has it been like one firework every two minutes?"

"Something like that," Rachel agreed. "But it's more about the ambiance, don't you think?"

"Hey, three at once," Quinn pointed out, "I think that was the grand finale."

Brittany clapped.

"Okay, I need the bathroom," Rachel announced. "Quinn, I'm going to need you to walk me to the little outhouse thingie we passed on the way."

"All right," Quinn sighed.

"Watch out for raccoons," Santana called out. "And take your time," she said quietly, pushing Brittany to the ground as Quinn and Rachel disappeared into the brush.

..

Rachel was singing as she and Quinn walked back toward the beach from the bathroom. Other than the waves on the lake and the synchronous chirping of probably a million crickets, it was the only sound.

Quinn was following Rachel down the trail – gingerly, in case there were spiders - and smiling to herself. This was nice; she felt nice. She felt a little high and a little drunk, and a little tingly with nervous excitement about their dark, deserted location. Rachel made a sudden sidestep, avoiding a mud puddle. Even though they'd been in the lake, and rained on, and in a car filled with smoke, she could still catch the scent of Rachel's hair when as it bounced across her shoulders with the sudden movement.

"Okay, here's our turn," Rachel whispered, taking Quinn's hand. "Ready?"

It was even more challenging this time, in the cover of full night time, to get from the path down to the beach. Quinn's spine prickled at the shadows. She focused on Rachel's hand and the reassuring glow of the flashlight in front of them.

They were almost back to the beach – Quinn could tell by how close the sound of the waves was getting. Rachel was pushing aside some low-hanging branches when she stopped in her tracks so fast that Quinn ran right into her. Rachel turned around, her hand over her mouth.

"What is it?" Quinn asked, her eyes widening. "Is it a raccoon? A bear?"

"No, it's. . ." Rachel trailed off, shaking her head. "It's our friends." She pulled aside the vegetation blocking Quinn's view.

In the moonlight, Quinn could see their silhouette. She didn't look long enough to discern who was on top of whom, but someone's legs were definitely around someone else's neck.

She smacked at Rachel's hand so the branches fell back into place.

They stared at each other in mild horror through the darkness, unsure what was to be said or done. Quinn found herself wanting to be silent so their presence wasn't known, but simultaneously make a TON of noise to cover up the sounds that she was hearing.

Then, behind her fingers, Rachel's eyes crinkled. And then Quinn was laughing, and Rachel was laughing and they were hurrying back through the brush with much less care than they'd come with, back towards the ignorant bliss of the trail.

"They are going to have sand in so many bad places," Quinn said as they reached the pavement.

"They had to have known we would get back in time to catch them," Rachel said incredulously.

"Please, they don't care."

"So what do we do now? Just. . . wait? How do we know when they're done?" Rachel asked, giggling again.

"I volunteer you to go check in ten minutes."

"Or. . ." Rachel said, taking a step closer to Quinn.

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "Or what, Rachel?"

Rachel smiled.

"What are you up to, Archie?" Quinn asked softly.

Rachel took one last step toward Quinn, a devious look in her eye, and turned off the flashlight.

..

Somehow – Quinn couldn't remember how – she ended up with her back pressed up against the scratchy bark of a pine tree, about ten yards into the woods off the trail.

_Spiders,_ she thought in alarm, but then Rachel's little tongue was inside her mouth, and she felt quite sure that there were no spiders in the world anywhere any more.

She felt tugged in two different directions, one way toward ripping off Rachel's clothes and the other toward, _but what if we get caught?_ But then Rachel was undoing her bathing suit top and her internal monologue abruptly switched to something like, _what are the chances, really, of someone coming by? _

Quinn dug her thumbs into the front of Rachel's hip bones and pressed the pads of her fingers into her ass, right at the top of the curve, pulling her open a little. God, she was so tiny. She was this tiny, little, sexy thing; Quinn's hands could go almost all the way around her when she held her here. She grabbed there, held on, gripped, kissed. _Hers_.

Quinn wasn't even sure when she made the decision to do it, but somehow now Rachel was the one with her back against the tree. She was running her hands all over Rachel's soft, curvy little body, cupping the sharp angle of her chin, molding the softness of her breasts into her palms, running her fingertips over the long line of Rachel's sides from armpit to hip, over the ridges of her ribs, and Rachel was cooing and sighing and canting her hips upward into her.

She hooked her thumbs under the sides of Rachel's bathing suit bottoms, and yanked downwards. Rachel kicked them away. Quinn bent to run her hands along the backs of Rachel's thighs.

Rachel understood, and let Quinn lift her legs, her feet leaving the ground. Her weight was now supported solely by Quinn's hips and new favorite tree.

Rachel was tiny but not light as a feather; there was satisfying weight and pressure, but also the unwieldy-ness of long, taut legs to deal with here, and Quinn struggled to hold her up and get her hand in place at the same time.

So Rachel squeezed, she squeezed Quinn's hips with her thighs, and lifted herself up a few inches. Quinn worked her hand into place, between their bodies, and pressed her body into Rachel and Rachel into the tree.

Mechanics attained, Rachel relaxed her thighs and slid herself down Quinn's fingers.

It was Quinn who moaned, a short, surprised, "_Ohh_".

Rachel's body somehow shivered and went hot, both, at the sound of it.

It seemed to her that something that got Quinn to make that noise needed to happen once more. She squeezed Quinn's hips again with her thighs, lifted herself off Quinn's fingers. And just as deliberately, she relaxed her thigh muscles little by little, lowering herself back onto them.

She clenched around Quinn's fingers and again got a tiny, whispered "_ohhh"_ into her neck.

The third time Rachel did repeated this process, Quinn pressed her face into the skin of the middle of Rachel's chest and bit at the tops of her breasts, and Rachel had a realization.

_Quinn loved it inside of her._

It was tested and confirmed every time Rachel relaxed her thighs and took Quinn in up to the palm of her hand, and Quinn moaned, or grunted, or _hurt_ Rachel deliciously in one place or another with her fingernails.

This realization was not nothing, because, here was the thing. Rachel got called certain words by Quinn Fabray. And 'beautiful" was a nice thing to be called, it really was. "Cute" was also pleasant. There were no spoken "I love you's" here, and Rachel didn't mind that at this stage.

"Hot" was not a word that got used for Rachel, not out loud, despite the moaning and the thrusting inside of her and the touching of everywhere Quinn could reach, and the kissing, _god_ the kissing that was happening right now in the midst of it all.

"Hot" had no place on Quinn's lips because it meant lust, it meant liking to fuck women, it meant liking to taste them and make them come against this damn scratchy pine tree in the woods in the dark. "Hot" meant admitting liking rubbing their insides because of the noises their bodies and their throats made when you did it.

Rachel deserved that word, and she knew she did, and she also knew she wouldn't get it, but maybe she could get a fire out of Quinn that might be just as good.

The noises she was making, the moans and whimpers, they weren't calculated. The decision to make them was deliberate, for sure, but it was all Quinn, the girl touching her, making her sweat and shake, it was Quinn who was making her sing.

"Rachel, your voice," Quinn murmured.

"Make me _loude_r," she panted, "Come on, Quinn." They were alone in the woods for God's sake, not in someone's parents' house, or a bathroom stall, or whatever.

Rachel exaggerated her movements when she had the mental acuity to remember to do it. She twisted her hips a little extra and arched her back to push her breasts closer to Quinn's face.

Rachel's legs, slippery with sweat, fell off of Quinn's hips as she climaxed, and Quinn had to hold her up as she rode it out.

Rachel steadied herself on her feet, leaning against Quinn, letting the dizziness pass. When it did, she reached down and coated her fingertips with the stickiness that covered her clit, and then reached up and drew a line across Quinn's mouth with it.

She held her breath, waiting to see how that would go over. She tittered nervously, suddenly shy, but silently defied Quinn to pretend she hadn't liked it.

Quinn, for her part, had no idea what the fuck had gotten into Rachel. But the way she was staring, with her messy hair and a pout on those lips and her fingertips with her taste on them poking into Quinn's mouth grazing her tongue…

Quinn grabbed Rachel by the hips and turned her around to face the tree.

Rachel let out a cry, one that could have been mistaken for distress but certainly wasn't distress. It was just that her voice was warmed up now, and it_ would _be used freely.

"Are you okay?" Quinn asked, backing away. "I'm sorry."

Rachel didn't say anything at first, her face and upper body pressed against a tree. Without moving, maintaining the position Quinn had put her in, she tossed her hair to one side and turned to look at Quinn over her shoulder.

"Do I _look_ okay, Quinn?"

Quinn swallowed. "What?"

"Do I look okay, Quinn."

"You. . . yes."

"So is this . . is this how you wanted me? Like this?" Rachel asked, arching her back just a little, and separating her legs.

_Come on. Admit it, Quinn. _

"I think, yes," Quinn whispered, finally.

Quinn stepped forward again. Tentatively, she put the palms of her hands against Rachel's ass.

"Do you like your hands there, Quinn?"

She entered Rachel roughly from behind by way of an answer. Facing the tree, Rachel smiled.

Quinn held her close, the arm that wasn't fucking her wrapped tightly around her chest. She breathed in Rachel's ear, panting with effort, and it made Rachel's knees turn to mush.

"Quinn, God Quinn, _yes_," Rachel moaned, bouncing her hips to meet the thrust of Quinn's arm.

"Tell me you like fucking me," she said, a pleading in her voice as she stilled herself, the pleasure building inside her.

"I like fucking you," Quinn complied, breathing the words into Rachel's ear.

"Tell me you like when I come."

"God, Rachel," Quinn said as Rachel's body clenched and then softened around her fingers. "I love it."

..

Quinn stood behind her, stroking the side of her face with one hand and holding her around the hips with the other, as Rachel calmed down.

"Ohh, Quinn," Rachel sighed as Quinn kissed the back of her neck. "This is one uncomfortable yet very lucky pine tree."

Quinn smiled, elated, but before she could reply in agreement, a bright light flashed in their eyes from the direction of the trail a few yards away.

"Yo, are you guys done yet?" Santana's voice came, annoyed, from the darkness. "We wants to go home!"

..

"I think I have tree bark in my butt," Rachel said as they made their way back toward the car.

"Sounded like it was worth it from where I was standing," Santana opined.

"I wouldn't trade the erotic passion of the moment for anything," Rachel agreed. "But I do wish we could have maybe thrown down a blanket."

"You could have taken one of ours," Brittany offered. "We wouldn't have noticed."

"Probs not," Santana agreed.

"Well, we're not pervs like the two of you, who hang around while that is going on," Quinn grumbled, more than one level of discomfort currently setting her nerves on edge.

"Oh please, you're lucky I didn't start throwing shit at you. And you're also lucky it was dark or I'd have video gold for blackmailing purposes. Shit, come to think of it I should have made it into a voice memo. Imagine if I had an mp3 with Berry's voice going 'Quinn, Quinn, oh Quinn!' I'd have been set for life with the amount of money Quinn would pay to keep that under wraps."

"Threaten all you want, but I didn't hear Brittany calling your name like that on the beach," Quinn said.

"Oh, really? Um, okay, I don't need her to put on a show for me," Santana countered. "The three orgasms in twenty minutes tells me all I need to know."

"Four," Brittany corrected her.

"Fuck, really?" Santana turned to Brittany, wide-eyed. "I missed one? How did I miss one?"

"Two in a row," Brittany explained.

Santana grabbed the front of Brittany's wrap and pulled her into a kiss. "You are the hottest fucking thing ever," she said. "And also, you need to make sure I know when that's happening. I need to know. Make sure I know."

"Okay, Santana, okay," Brittany said, giggling at Santana in between kisses. "I'll make sure."

"Also, you have sex hair," Santana said, tousling Brittany's messy hair. "Put your towel over it," she said, pulling the towel from around Brittany's shoulders up to cover her head. "I can't look at that. I can't, or I'm gonna give you four more right here in front of Quinnchel. Just, be less hot for a minute."

Behind them, Rachel squeezed Quinn's hand and smiled as Brittany pulled her towel down over her head and wrapped Santana up in a bear hug.

Quinn lifted Rachel's hand to her lips and kissed each one of Rachel's fingertips.

..

"Sorry I wasn't able to, you know, reciprocate," Rachel whispered to Quinn as Santana and Brittany got into the car. "I'll make it up to you as soon as we get home."

"I hope Brittany drives fast," Quinn sighed, and Rachel could see for the first time in the dim glow of the overhead light of the car just how flushed Quinn's lips and cheeks were.

Santana passed out a mere five minutes into the drive. Brittany seemed to be occupied with tapping the steering wheel and singing along to anything that came on the radio (whether she knew the words or not). Rachel curled up against Quinn beneath a blanket in the back seat.

"Bite your hand," she whispered. "Don't make any noise."

Rachel pulled aside Quinn's bathing suit and sank her fingers into Quinn's wetness before she could protest. Quinn had to cover her gasp with a cough.

"Bless you," Santana murmured from the front seat, shifting in her sleep.

Rachel smiled and bit her bottom lip. Quinn stared down at her, eyes heavy, mouth half open.

Rachel didn't tease. She would do this correctly later, but for now, Quinn needed release.

It wasn't easy, knowing what was working when Quinn couldn't make any noise or move much. Rachel closed her eyes and worked Quinn's clit with her fingertips, letting muscle memory guide her.

Right around the time Brittany was merging back onto the interstate, Rachel's efforts were rewarded. Quinn's stomach muscles tightened against Rachel's side, and Rachel could see the grimace on her face in the flashes of passing headlights. She came with a "mmmff," she wasn't able to suppress, and kneed the back of Santana's seat.

"Sorry," Quinn said sheepishly, trying to sound as though she weren't breathless, as Santana sat up in the front seat. "I had one of those dreams where you're falling and you jolt awake."

Santana blinked at them blearily. "Yeah, well, try to control yourself, would you? I'm trying to sleep up here."

"It's your fault for interrupting us in the woods," Rachel said under her breath.

Quinn laughed silently, and leaned over and kissed the top of Rachel's head.

..

An hour and a half later, Rachel was brushing her teeth in Quinn's bathroom. Quinn leaned against the wall, watching her.

"I want to ask you something," she said.

Rachel straightened, meeting Quinn's eyes in the mirror, and stopped brushing. This _sounded_ like a happy Quinn. Certainly the night had gone well. But anytime Quinn built suspense, one could never be certain what was about to come out of her mouth.

"Rachel, a few months ago when I was still with Finn, I told my cousin Sherie I was bringing a date to her wedding. Obviously that's not happening, but I realized the other day that I still have a plus one."

Rachel whirled around to face Quinn.

"You would have to come as my friend, obviously, but. . . Rachel, do you want to go with me?"

Rachel didn't speak, on account of the toothpaste and surprise. But she threw her arms around Quinn, and Quinn smiled, hugging her tight.

"It's next Saturday, though, Rach," she added. "It could conflict with rehearsal."

"I don't care," Rachel mumbled, and gave Quinn a toothpastey kiss on the cheek. "I think I got toothpaste in your hair, though."

Quinn laughed. "I don't care, either."

...

**Wednesday, July 13 / 10:34 pm**

Rachel sat at the desk in her room staring at her phone.

This was not good. The fact that it wasn't buzzing, and hadn't buzzed all day, was very, very not good.

She picked it up again and dialed Santana.

"Berry."

"Santana, have you heard from Quinn?"

"When?"

"This week."

"You haven't heard from Quinn all week?"

"The last text I got from her was Saturday night, about an hour after I left her house."

"Shit, Berry, it's Wednesday. Did you call Judy to make sure she isn't dead?"

"This morning. She said Quinn was busy with school work and her internship."

"Britt, have you seen Quinn this week?

"Britt says she canceled SAT tutoring yesterday. Maybe you better go over there, Berry."

"I don't think so," Rachel said. "Thanks Santana."

She paused. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm so rude. How was USC?"

"Fucking amazing. Those bitches know what's up."

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Thanks, Berry. Call me when you hear from Quinn, right?"

"Right."

Rachel hung up feeling sick to her stomach. This was really not good.

...

**Sunday, July 17 / 2:02am**

Rachel's phone finally buzzed with a message from Quinn late Saturday night. She was still awake, barely, watching classic movies on TCM.

"Quinn?" she said frantically, nearly juggling the phone right out of her grasp with her shaking hands.

"Rachel, I'm . . .I'm ready to . . . talk to you now."

"Quinn, are you drunk?"

"Yuuup. Very, very, verrrrrry."

"Quinn, can I come over?"

"No."

"What did you want to talk about?"

"I have to. . . to ask you something."

"Okay. Okay, I'm listening Quinn."

"The night in the woods, Rachel."

"Yeah? W-What about it?"

"Why was it different, Rachel?"

"I don't . . . what do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Quinn, I really don't."

"It was different. You were different. It wasn't like that before, and it wasn't like that since."

"How so?"

"You were like . . . you liked it more. You were all. . . crazy."

Rachel's cheeks flushed a little. "I thought you liked it."

"But it's true, right?" Quinn goaded. "You liked it more."

"Not exactly," Rachel hedged.

"I know why, though. You thought I wouldn't know about it, but I do."

"You know about what, Quinn?" Rachel asked, nausea welling up in her stomach. She had no idea where Quinn was going with this, but the tone in her voice made it clear that wherever it was going, Rachel was going to have a very hard time defending herself successfully.

"I knowwww that it was because of Santana."

"Santana? Quinn, what in hell are you talking about?"

"We saw them," Quinn said. "Together. You saw them and you were thinking about her fucking you instead of me, and DON'T tell me you weren't."

"Quinn," Rachel said, holding down a building hysteria to keep her voice level. "That is not true. It's not true at all, Quinn. Listen to me, you're _really_ drunk, okay? And you don't believe me, but none of what you're saying right now makes any sense. I didn't see anything, no more than you did, and even if I had it would have nothing to do with what happened between you and me, okay? Quinn? Quinn, can I please come and see you?"

"No."

"Okay, Quinn, look," Rachel said, her voice breaking. "I promise. I promise you that what happened between you and me in the woods that night was all about you and me. I promise you that, okay? You don't have to worry about that – I don't want Santana, I want you. Are you listening, Quinn?"

There was a long silence during which Rachel was pretty sure she heard the muffled "glug" of Quinn chugging from a bottle of something.

"You don't understand anything, Rachel."

"I. . . How am I supposed to respond to that, Quinn?" Rachel asked desperately. "What do you mean by that?"

"You don't understand ANYTHING about me. You push, and push, and push, and try to make everything happen all how you want it to."

Rachel felt truly sick now, partially because she knew Quinn had left the realm of the absurd and was knocking on the door of the truth.

"I'm so, so sorry about that, Quinn. It's something I'm working on. I can try harder, I can. You know I can, right?"

"I thhhink it's too late. Tooooo late."

"Quinn, don't say that, okay? Listen to me – are you listening?"

"I'm not sure if I am or not."

Rachel shook her head in frustration. "Quinn, think about who I am, please? I'm your Rachel. I'm.. . I'm your Archie. And all I want to be is the person you can talk to, okay? I've been that person before, even before anything happened for real with us. You know that – I know you know that. Maybe it's not easy for me to understand what you're going through, but I'm trying so hard, Quinn, to still be that person, I promise. I want to understand."

Silence rang again in Rachel's left ear.

"Quinn," Rachel said, in desperation. "Do you remember what I said to you last weekend, after we had that fight after the wedding?"

"You said you loved me," Quinn answered immediately, but flatly.

"Right," Rachel said, relieved that she remembered it. "That's right. I do, Quinn, I love you."

"You don't."

Rachel broke into tears in earnest, now.

"Quinn, fuck - how can you say that?"

"Because you THINK so, maybe, but you don't KNOW me. It doesn't matter if we like being together. It's not the same thing."

"No. No, that's not true. I love you. And look, Quinn, I love you even though it isn't easy. And I do know you, okay? You're really mean sometimes, and you're mad a lot, and that's okay. But I try so hard to make you happy, and sometimes it works. It works sometimes, right? Remember? You have to let me keep trying. Quinn, just let me try."

Rachel heard a muffled sound on the other end of the line, but no words.

"Quinn? Are you crying? Quinn, _please_ just let me come see you. _Please_. We can fix this."

"Rachel, no. . . no, we can't. It's too much, it's too fast. I just. . . I need it to stop. I can't take it anymore."

"Quinn, what are you saying? Why are you saying this?"

"I am so tired of being scared ALL the time. I can't. . . I can't take it anymore, Rachel. I want someone else."

Rachel's voice caught in her throat, and she gagged, nearly throwing up. "There's someone else?" she squeaked.

"I'm – I am sorry, Rachel." Quinn sounded lucid for the first time since the conversation began.

"You're _sorry_? Well, who is it? Who is she Quinn, because I don't care who it is, she won't be better than me."

"It's not a SHE."

Rachel dropped her phone without hanging up, and flung herself face down on her bed, sobbing.

...

**Saturday, July 23 / 7:22pm**

Rachel worked her way through an entire box of Kleenexes over two days at Brittany's house, where she slept on the couch in the family room. Brittany, Santana, and Gail brought her everything they could think of to eat and drink. They would come back an hour later to find whatever it was primarily untouched.

It wasn't that she was in a constant, hysterical state. It was more of a low-grade zombie brand of misery, like a gnawing at the pit of her stomach that shot up between her shoulder blades once in a while, and kicked off a new round of sobbing. Sometimes she was conscientious enough to deposit her used tissues in the wastebasket Mrs. Pierce had provided. Other times they dotted the furniture-scape around her like oversized confetti.

This was one of the latter times. Rachel, in her ridiculous lady bug pajamas, had passed out face down while she was supposed to be eating dinner. Santana, observing glumly from the nearby recliner, snapped a photo. She tapped "MMS" and then a "Q."

She didn't get a reply.

...

**Saturday, July 8****th**** / 3:00pm**

Quinn's cousin happened to be getting married in Defiance, Ohio on the hottest day of the year thus far. Even with the air conditioning on in Mrs. Fabray's car, the sun baked Rachel's skin through the windows. She touched her hands absently to her forehead, where the humidity was curling tiny strands of frizz away from her perfectly arranged upsweep.

"You look fine, Rachel," Quinn said, eyeing her in the rearview mirror. Rachel smiled. In front of her mother, this was Quinn's way of telling Rachel she looked pretty.

Judy didn't like driving in unfamiliar towns, so Quinn had volunteered.

"We have to keep her occupied in the car," Quinn had warned that morning as they did their makeup in Quinn's bathroom. "She's going to put on a front, but she's freaked out about seeing my father today."

"Do you get up to Defiance to see your sister very much, Mrs. Fabray?" Rachel asked, in the spirit of idle distraction.

"Ohhh," Judy sighed, glancing back at Rachel from the front passenger seat. "No, not too often. Russell never liked to put miles on the cars, but Cindy always brought the kids down for Thanksgiving. Sometimes for Easter, too. I'd cook a ham and Russell would organize all the kids for an Easter egg hunt. Quinnie always won, every year, even though she was the youngest. "

"Easter egg hunts always looked like so much fun," Rachel smiled.

"Oh, your family never put them on?" Judy asked, surprised.

"Umm. . .no, I—"

"Rachel's Jewish, mom," Quinn said.

"Oh."

"Well, on one dad's side," Rachel clarified. "And my biological mom is half Jewish, too. Anyway, we didn't celebrate Easter but we'd always have big family get-togethers for Passover, though, just like you guys and Easter. Even my other dad's family on the non-Jewish side would come. It's a wonderful time of year for everyone, I think," she said with forced cheerfulness.

Rachel wasn't sure why she had just said all of that, or how much of what she'd just said had sunk in. Quinn's eyes refused to meet hers in the mirror anymore.

"Sounds . . . festive," Judy said.

Rachel nodded and turned her gaze out the window. She decided she was done making small talk for now.

Forty-five minutes later, Rachel found that she had never been so glad to pull up to a church parking lot. The lobby of the church was mercifully cool, and small groups of friends and relatives stood in pockets of reacquaintance, complaining about the heat.

Rachel knew right away which one was Quinn's sister, even before Quinn and her mother made a beeline for the gorgeous blonde in the coral dress.

"Rachel, this is my sister Fran," Quinn said, "And her husband Thomas. Frannie, this is my friend Rachel."

Rachel shook their hands and told them how nice it was to meet them. "How far along are you?" she asked Frannie, swallowing her surprise.

"Just over five months," Frannie beamed. "I'm finally getting over the morning sickness, so now it's just the hormones and the heat making me uncomfortable."

"It'll all be worth it when she's here," an older woman standing nearby offered. "You just hang in there Francesca. We're all waiting with bated breath."

"Don't put too much pressure on her, Mother," Judy scolded. "It's not good for her."

"It's my first grandbaby! I am well within my rights to put as much pressure on her as I want. Right, Frannie?"

"Grandma, this is my friend Rachel," Quinn said calmly, not missing a beat. "I brought her as my guest, since Finn and I broke up."

"Nice to meet you, Rachel. Do you go to school with Quinnie?"

"Yes ma'am, we became friends in Glee Club."

"So you must know this Finn character? What's wrong with that boy that he would let my granddaughter get away so easily?"

"Well, I suppose when Quinn decides she's ready to move on, there's not much anyone can do."

Quinn's grandmother laughed. "She is a stubborn one."

"Let's take our seats, girls," Judy said. Rachel thought it couldn't be a coincidence that she hurried them into the chapel just as she caught her first glimpse of Russell Fabray out of the corner of her eye.

...

"Sherie and Donovan, welcome," the minister said to begin the ceremony. "Today you have chosen to gather here with your friends and family to share in the joy of this day, the day when the two of you commit to each other in holy matrimony.

The Bible teaches us that love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. For those gathered here today who don't know, Sherie and Donovan met when they were just sixteen years old. Together they navigated the waters of high school and college, never wavering in their commitment to one another, even though for four years they saw each other only on weekends and breaks from school. Now, six years later, in front of the loved ones who guided them in their youth and supported them in their relationship through difficult times, they make a sacred vow of commitment to one another.

Sherie, Donovan – there is a vast and unknown future stretching out before you. The possibilities and potentials of your married life are great; it falls upon your shoulders the task of choosing your values and making your dreams come true.

Through your commitment to each other, may you grow and nurture a love that makes both of you better people. May you cultivate a love that continues to give you great joy, as it has for years already. May it provide you with a passion for living that fuels you with energy and bestows upon you patience to face the responsibilities of life, together."

In the romance of the moment, Rachel wanted desperately to take Quinn's hand.

She lifted the fingers of her left hand, the one closest to Quinn, a few inches off her knee.

She felt tears sting her eyes as Quinn returned the gesture with the fingers of her right hand.

"As I gaze upon the faces gathered in this church, I see so much love," the minister continued. "And I ask that when the two of you remember together your wedding day, you always bring to mind this feeling of how loved you are. Rely on these friends, these members of your family. The marriage between one man and one woman is the cornerstone of God's plan for mankind. The people in this room understand that, and will do everything they can to embrace, support, and grow the love you share.

Let us pause for the first reading from the book of Corinthians. "

...

Quinn and Rachel sat in silence at one of the large, round tables in the reception hall. Quinn gazed longingly at the open bar. Rachel picked through her pasta salad, poking aside the hunks of chicken.

"Quinn," Judy said quietly, or as quietly as she could and still be heard over the terrible disco music blaring from the dance floor, "Have you said hello to your father yet?"

Quinn gazed in his direction, where two tables over Russell was sitting alone, scowling at the drink in his hand.

"I don't even understand why he's here," Quinn replied testily. "It's not his family anymore."

"He's here because your cousin Sherie invited him. Go say hi."

"You're only making me do this so he doesn't come over here."

Judy stared icily at her daughter. Quinn turned on her heel and strode toward her father's table.

"I'm going to get a drink," Judy said. "Would you like another 7-Up, Rachel?"

"No, thank you Mrs. Fabray," Rachel said.

Out of her peripheral vision, Rachel watched Quinn slide into a chair next to her father, who only partially acknowledged her presence. They talked. He glanced once in her direction, a look of disapproval on his face, and Quinn returned in an even worse mood than before.

"He asked about me, didn't he?" Rachel said.

Quinn nodded. "Sort of. He knew who you were already, actually. He said, 'why did I bring that Jewish girl who lives with the homosexuals to my cousin's wedding?'"

"Wow, that's . . . weird and a little creepy."

"Don't take it personally. He keeps tabs on all the undesirable elements in town, not just your family."

"I feel much better, then."

Quinn was very, very sorry she had asked Rachel to come to this wedding. It was one of the dumber things she'd done lately, she decided, and that was really saying something. Damn Rachel and her stupid, perfect Fourth of July.

On the dance floor, the DJ was calling for couples as he started a sappy 80's ballad. Rachel glanced at Quinn sadly. Quinn, her jaw set in a tight frown, didn't return the glance.

Even with a pout, Quinn thought, Rachel looked so beautiful. If they could just hide themselves under an invisibility cloak for one song and hold each other on the dance floor, this day could still be salvaged. Quinn conjured the image in her mind.

"Would you like to dance?"

"Me?" Rachel asked the cute, blonde boy who stood by their table.

He nodded.

Quinn officially wanted to punch every single person she was related to.

"Rachel, this is my cousin Jonah. Jonah, Rachel."

"Go dance, Rachel," Judy said, returning with two glasses of clear, bubbly liquid. "No reason to sit here and be bored with us girls."

Rachel could not possibly want to dance less with this boy. But it was surely easier, and easier to explain, to just go along with it. She rose reluctantly and followed Jonah to the dance floor.

Quinn took one of Judy's drinks and promptly slurped it down, not giving one fuck about the appalled look on her mother's face.

...

Later that night, Quinn and Rachel lay side by side in Quinn's bed, exhausted, still dressed up in everything but their uncomfortable shoes.

"Your sister was really nice," Rachel said.

"Was she?"

"She came up to me while you were in the bathroom and told me it was nice meeting me and that she loved my dress."

"She's usually not that friendly. She must have really liked you."

"So, why didn't you tell me she was pregnant?" Rachel asked quietly.

"I don't know," Quinn shrugged. "Because I think it's stupid. They're too young."

"How old?"

"She's 23, he's 24."

"When did they meet?"

"High school."

Rachel smiled. "That seems to happen a lot in your family. Sherie and Donovan, Frannie and Thomas. Do all of you meet the loves of your lives in high school?" She rolled onto her belly, looking down at Quinn.

"Quit being cute," Quinn said. "I'm not in the mood."

"I know it's a lifetime away," Rachel said, kissing her cheek. "But someday that could be us, right?"

"What could be us?" Quinn asked warily.

"Getting married. I'm not saying that's what you want or what I want," she added hurriedly. "Just that . . . I don't know. It could be us, too. It certainly fits your family tradition."

"Oh God, Rachel," Quinn rolled her eyes. "Tell me, what's the weather like where you live? What color is the sky?"

"I'm just daydreaming, Quinn. Don't you ever do that?"

Quinn sat up. "No, not when it's pointless. That's never going to be us, Rachel. I can't believe after today you don't see that."

Rachel sat up next to her, trying not to feel like Quinn had just put a little crack in her heart. "Why are you getting so mad, Quinn?"

"It's just not how it works," Quinn said. "The fact that you think we'd ever get, you know, the white dresses with the whispers in the seats about how beautiful we look. . . well, it's ridiculous. We don't get the photo albums or the crying grandparents, or the teary-eyed fathers walking us down the aisle. Or, or the big, expensive reception, or the family there to celebrate. You know, we don't get to force our families to dress up and take a day out of their lives to celebrate us. We don't get my church's blessing. We don't get support."

Quinn was on the verge of crying. Rachel felt the tendrils of panic wrap around her insides. Not again.

Quinn paused, looked into Rachel's eyes, and nodded.

"One man, one woman. You heard him."

"It doesn't have to be that way, Quinn," Rachel said. "There are so many communities who would celebrate you being with me – being with a woman."

"God Rachel, just stop. You never get it," Quinn said, rubbing her temples.

"No, I do get it, Quinn. We'll never get the acceptance we want from your family, or your church. I recognize that and I know that that's awful. But if there's one thing I've learned from my dads, it's that sometimes, you know, you have to make your own family."

"I already have a family. I already have a church," Quinn said in a low, tired voice. "And whatever, it's fine, you know. I don't expect you to get it, Rachel. How could you, because you don't understand what it's like to believe."

"I believe in God just like you," Rachel said half-heartedly, recognizing even as she said it that it wasn't the point at all.

"Just, listen to me. Get it through your head. We will never have a wedding, Rachel, because I am tired of having to ask for forgiveness. I spent a year after my daughter was born doing that. Asking for forgiveness. Forgiveness from God, from my family, from the people at my church."

She inhaled a ragged breath. "And from my daughter. Do you know what it's like to feel like you have to ask forgiveness for making a _person_?"

Rachel blinked. "No. No, of course I don't. But Quinn, I'm confused about what this has to do with getting married."

Tears fell from Quinn's cheeks onto the sheets, and her shoulders started to shake. Rachel wrapped Quinn up in her arms, her head swimming.

"I know you and Santana and everyone, you all think I should just leave," Quinn continued. "Just move on and forget them. But I belong with my church. I need my church. I need it more than ever now, because I have to ask forgiveness for everything," she said. "For every day that I love you. For every time I have sex with you. For every time I lie and tell someone that you're my friend, because lying about it is a sin, too. We don't get a wedding, Rachel, because how can I ask people to celebrate something that they all know is _wrong_? We just . . . we don't get the same things, Rachel, and it's stupid to pretend that we do."

There were a million things Rachel could have said about the perverse logic of Quinn's religious beliefs.

But only one sentiment made it out of her mouth as she held Quinn while she sobbed.

"I love you too, Quinn," she said, hugging her tight. "Quinn, I love you, too."


	7. Chapter 7

**Monday, June 6, 2011 / 7:39pm**

Quinn descended the stairs to Rachel's dads' finished basement (for some reason it galled her to call it "the Oscar Room") about ten minutes later than Rachel had asked her to be there. She hated being late, so she was a little breathless from the hurry.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, surprise collapsed her speed to a slow stride. On the stage, Santana stood with Rachel at a heavy, wooden podium which was complete with a built-in microphone. The two of them were conversing in hushed tones, Rachel's hand over the microphone as if to block out the official business they were discussing. Rachel was wearing a knee-length gray pencil skirt and a dark green blazer; Santana wore a button-down collared white shirt and a green and gray striped tie that had been quite obviously color-coordinated with Rachel's outfit. Behind them stretched a full-sized projection screen that dropped from the ceiling.

Santana caught sight of Quinn first and greeted her with a brusque, "You're late, Fabray."

"I'm. . .sorry?" she stammered.

Rachel smiled broadly and bounded across the room, taking Quinn's hands and leading her to the couch. Brittany sat Indian style on one half of it, and she smiled up at Quinn reassuringly.

"Sit here," Rachel urged.

Quinn lowered herself to the cushions, and Rachel returned to the stage.

"It's okay, Quinn," Brittany assured her. "You haven't missed anything yet."

"Do you know what's going on?" Quinn whispered.

"They're having a presentation."

"About what?"

Brittany shrugged, and Rachel approached the podium and cleared her throat.

"Good evening ladies and . . . girlfriends." She slid a lever in front of her on the podium and the lights in the room dimmed halfway. Then she punched a few buttons on the laptop computer in front of her, and a title slide appeared on the projection screen.

Rachel B. Berry AND Santana L. Lopez

PRESENT

Conquering McKinley in Seven Steps:

A Guide to Model Student Citizenship 2011-2012

June 6, 2011

"As you all know," she continued, "The four of us have recently undertaken steps to become one half each of two lesbian relationships. I think we can all agree that this is, to varying degrees, unexpected and challenging. As you are undoubtedly aware, embarking on such a journey while attending high school in West Central Ohio can present difficulties for one's self-esteem, not to mention, unfortunately, one's personal safety."

Santana, standing demurely at Rachel's side, clicked a button on the controller in her hand and a photograph of Kurt Hummel's smiling face appeared on the projection screen.

Nodding her approval at Santana, Rachel continued. "While our relationships have thus far by design remained under the radar of the McKinley High School population at large, we cannot expect this to last, even if that is our wish."

Santana and Rachel exchanged places, and Rachel took the controller to change the slide to a shot of Santana and Dave Karofsky in red berets.

"That's right," Santana agreed, leaning in to the podium microphone. "And while the Bully Whips have kicked ass at preventing any actual violence, we all saw what happened to Kurt at Prom last month."

Ducking her head in front of Santana, Rachel continued. "Therefore, I think we can all agree – it's not just about preventing bullying. We need to change people's attitudes. We need to educate them. We need to –"

"We need to be untouchable," Santana cut her off, grasping the neck of the microphone and directing it towards her face. "By the time we go back to school, we need to make it so that we're so feared and admired that nobody will even whisper about us in the bathrooms."

On the couch, Quinn and Brittany exchanged skeptical glances.

Rachel took back the microphone. "So, here is my –our – seven point plan for problem-free acceptance by our peers during our senior year."

Changing the slide again to an outdoor shot of the school building, Santana added, "The bottom line is, we need to be hot, talented, and ambitious."

"And smart. And leaders!" Rachel enthused. "Next slide, please. Point number one: academics."

Santana clicked the button again, and a photo of Rachel, grinning behind thick black glasses and holding up a pile of textbooks appeared on the screen.

"To be respected, you need to be successful in your field of endeavor. As high school students, that means good grades. I suggest tri-weekly study groups and practice exams on the weekends.

"Point number two: Glee Club." Santana changed the slide to a shot of the group at Nationals. "Our collective star shines brighter now that we traveled to compete in New York, but let's be frank. Nobody will remember that when we go back in September. We need to put together a back-to-school assembly that will knock the student body's socks off. We're talking a bigger riot than ever before. I have a suggestion box that will remain open until mid-July, at which time I will peruse the suggestions and put together our program." Rachel pulled a giant shoebox with the words "SUGGESTION BOX" printed in big, bold letters on the front from beneath the podium, and set it on the stage.

"Point number three: Student government. We need to be leaders, in a position to influence not only policy but popular opinion. We need to infiltrate the power structure of McKinley High! Now, not all of us are electable. This may be due to certain. . . attitude impairments. . ." she said, side-eyeing Santana, "or the fact that most people don't really like me. Therefore I suggest pouring our collective energies behind one perfect candidate. . ." she trailed off.

"Santana. Santana!"

"What?"

"Next slide. Come on, we rehearsed this!"

Santana, rolling her eyes, clicked through to the next slide. "I don't know why you can't change your own damn slides."

A picture of Quinn with the banner "Quinn Fabray for Student Body President!" smiled out at them.

"We're going to get Quinn elected as class president! Quinn, I suggest that immediately following this meeting, we begin drafting our, I mean your, winning platform."

"Hold up," Santana interrupted again. "I thought we said it should be Britt. Stretch marks over there crashed and burned the last time she campaigned for something."

"You're one to talk," Quinn shot back from the couch.

"Okay, let's move on? I believe this has been decided," Rachel interrupted. "Point four: volunteer work. It's hard to hate people who are working to make a difference. With that in mind, I signed us up for two mornings per week at the Trinity United Methodist Summer Bible School. "

Quinn smiled for the first time as Santana choked out, "You did what?"

"Moving along to point five: future plans. We want to dazzle our would-be detractors with blindingly bright futures. For instance, I have already begun to prepare my applications and audition pieces for New York University, University of the Arts, and Carnegie Mellon University. If anyone would like college counseling, I am available by appointment."

Rachel looked pointedly from Brittany to Santana and back.

"Point six. Oh, Santana insisted on this one. Santana?"

Santana elbowed Rachel out of the way. "Point six is that we have to look hot. Like, smokin hot. All the time. Obviously, Britts and I already have that covered. You two, on the other hand, are gonna need some work. Especially Berry. Although Q, while that haircut is an improvement, I have to say that your button down sweaters and floral prints are an outrage on a teenaged lesbian."

"Don't call me that."

"Fine. Those clothes are an outrage on anyone. We're going shopping, chica."

"I like your sweaters," Rachel whispered into the microphone as Quinn looked down at her pink cardigan self-consciously. "Finally, and most importantly, is point seven: education of our peers."

"Rachel, is that a picture of two monkeys having sex?" Quinn asked, shielding her eyes in horror from the image on the screen.

"Indeed, Quinn, it is!" Rachel replied with an enthusiastic smile. "That is two MALE bonobos, a primate which, next to chimpanzees, is our closest relative. Did you know that homosexuality has been documented in thousands of animal species, including sheep who pair bond for life and gay penguins who have actually raised foster offspring together?"

"I do not want to know what you had to google to find that picture of the monkeys," Santana said.

Unfazed, Rachel continued, "The evolutionary benefits of homosexuality in the animal kingdom are just beginning to be understood, but studies indicate that homosexual relations may serve to resolve conflict and establish hierarchy in primate societies. And so-called 'gay genes' in men have even been linked to increased fertility in female relatives.

Furthermore, you may know that LGBT humans are responsible for not just some of the best art in the history of humanity, like that of Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Elton John, but there was also Alan Turing, widely credited as the father of the modern computer."

"Is that true?" Quinn asked.

"Of course! You may also remember the name Jane Addams, namesake of our ethically challenged Sectionals competition last year. She was a lesbian and the first American woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize."

"Remember all those hot delinquent girls, Santana?" Brittany reminisced.

"Walt Whitman and Henry David Thoreau," Quinn murmured, almost to herself.

"Very good, Quinn!" Rachel encouraged. "Two of our best American writers of poetry and prose."

"Umm, I hate to interrupt this nerd festival," Santana said, "but Berry isn't the only one with a plan."

"Right," Rachel said, nodding with a slightly pained expression on her face. "Go ahead, Santana."

"Well for starters, in my plan I'm going to disable every slushie machine in a twenty-mile radius."

"How?" Quinn asked.

"Four words, Q: Dead bugs, health department."

"You're deranged."

"Second," Santana continued, changing the slide to show a picture of a small boy in a flowing pink dress. "Blackmail."

"Is that Azimio?" Brittany asked.

"Mmhmm. In his fourth grade school play. And this is just the beginning. By the end of the summer, I intend to have dirt on every student at that school. They won't be able to give us crap unless they're prepared to be publicly humiliated."

Brittany frowned.

"Third: we're going to start a band."

"We- we are?" Rachel asked. "Santana, we didn't – wait, who gets to sing?"

"I do."

Rachel stared at her, appalled.

"Face it, Berry. People don't want to see an all-girl band fronted by Barbra Streisand. They want to see an Amy Winehouse tribute."

"But, what will the rest of us do?" Rachel protested. "Nobody plays guitar, or drums."

"Who cares? We're four hot girls forming a band. Well, three plus Quinn. We'll figure out the rest as we go along."

Quinn stood up. "Okay, I think I've seen enough. Rachel, walk me out?"

As Santana wrinkled her brow in dismay, Rachel frowned and followed Quinn, who was already rapidly disappearing up the stairs.

"Okay," she conceded, "but we still need to talk about your platform issues!" She paused halfway up the stairs to call back to Santana and Brittany, "You two, don't leave! We need to brainstorm what I'll be singing at our back to school assembly."

Santana watched Quinn and Rachel's legs disappear up the stairs and followed their footsteps across the living room above their heads. The front door slammed, and Santana stepped off the stage and sat next to Brittany on the couch.

"God, Fabray is so hostile, and that's coming from me."

Brittany only smiled at her.

"What? Why are you smiling?"

"Can I play drums?"

Santana smiled back. "Totally."

"Why are you sad?"

"I'm not sad, I'm annoyed. All this shit about college, it's like all everyone is talking about."

"I'm totally excited, Santana. I mean, not about studying or anything, but all the other stuff about college."

"My mother won't shut up about it. She's making me download all these applications and take the SATs this fall. It's tyranny."

"What's wrong with applying to college? You want to go, right?"

"Shit, I want to get outta here more than anyone. But it's hard enough thinking about getting through this fall. When do I have time to think about a year from now?"

"Wellll, maybe this will change your mind," Brittany said with a small smile as she reached into her purse. "I have something to show you."

Santana took the brightly-colored brochure from Brittany's hands. "University of Toledo?"

"Check out page five," Brittany directed.

"You want to join their cheerleading program?" Santana asked, examining the text.

"Totally. My mom thinks we can get scholarships."

A trill of excitement fluttered through Santana's stomach. Brittany wanted them to go to college together?

"But, Britt, we quit cheering. They're not going to want a couple of quitters."

"Santana, we were on two national championship teams. How many girls can say that?"

Santana paused in thought. "But we couldn't be scouted, right? We would have to try out."

Brittany nodded. "We can work on our routines all summer. Maybe Quinn can help us with the choreography."

Santana pursed her lips at the thought of it. "That's like, a ton of work, Britt. I haven't worked out like that in months."

"It'll be fun, Santana. We can go to the gym together, and take pilates. We can run in the park."

That actually did sound like fun.

"All right," Santana acquiesced.

Brittany clapped her hands rapid-fire and pushed the brochure toward Santana. "Take it home and show your mom. She's going to be so excited for you."

"I guess anything that makes me too busy to do Berry's nerd party crap and gets my mom off my back about college is a win-win."

"So win-win!" Brittany exclaimed, throwing her arms around Santana's shoulders.

...

Quinn leaned backwards against her car door and pulled Rachel forward against her. Rachel stiffened and planted her toes into the driveway.

"What?" Quinn asked impatiently, tugging at the pocket of Rachel's blazer.

It's not that Rachel didn't want to be kissing Quinn. It's just that the abrupt change of mood from 45 seconds ago in her basement had been, well, abrupt.

"Is everything okay?" she asked. "You seemed to really hate that meeting, and I sort of expected you to be excited about some of my ideas."

Quinn sighed and dropped her hands to her sides.

"Rachel," she said, the reprimand in her voice barely restrained. "You don't think any of that stuff in your presentation is actually going to work, do you?"

"Why wouldn't it?"

Quinn looked at Rachel for a beat as if waiting for her to come to her senses, or to smile like she was kidding all along.

"Santana's ideas are ridiculous, for one. You shouldn't spend so much time with her, Rachel, she's warping your brain. And the rest is unrealistic. Do you really think getting good grades or talking about gay monkeys is going to make any difference at all when we go back to school?"

"Okay, I'll admit that some of those proposals might look like a stretch. But what about volunteering and student government? It can't hurt, can it?" Rachel said. "To be involved and successful?"

"Rachel, when we go back, it's going to be seriously hard," Quinn said. "For all of us. You need to stop with these childish ideas and understand that."

Rachel pouted her bottom lip in an exaggerated frown. "I don't understand what's wrong with trying to make it better, Quinn. Look at Brittany, you know? She's completely confident, so she's not worried at all. Maybe if we could all be more confident like that –"

"Brittany?" Quinn repeated. "Rachel, Brittany is too dim to be anything but confident. "

Rachel stared at her, blinking. Quinn lowered her voice but added, "I'm sorry, but it's true."

"Quinn, that's – you're being rude," Rachel said. "Brittany deals with the same issues as the rest of us."

"Look, I'm sorry if that's harsh, Rach. It's just that none of this is a joke to me."

"The meeting wasn't meant to be a joke, Quinn. You don't think Santana, at least, gets that this will be hard on all of us? Look at the lengths she went to to make sure we were in it with her."

"Yeah, so it means she'll make ridiculous plans, Rachel. It doesn't mean she takes anything seriously."

When Rachel said nothing in reply, grinding the toe of her right shoe into the gravel of the driveway, Quinn decided it was probably time to make peace.

"I do like the idea of volunteering, though," she said. "It looks really good on college applications."

"So does being student body president," she added, smiling at Quinn. "Will you think about it? I'd be the best campaign manager the halls of that high school have EVER seen."

"I've no doubt of that. I'm not sure I want to do anything that puts me back in the spotlight right away," Quinn said carefully. "But I'll think about it."

**...  
><strong>

**Sunday, July 17 / 9:56am**

Somehow, it was 10am on a Sunday, and Brittany and Santana had been not only awake for three hours, but out of the house for two and a half of them. And it had been Santana's idea.

Sure, when Brittany's phone alarm went off at 6:51, Santana had threatened to throw it in the toilet. And when the first snooze rang out at 7:00, Brittany had to wrestle it from Santana's hands to keep her from turning it off entirely.

The thing about Santana was, she hated getting out of bed, but she secretly liked the part where you talked her into it. This morning, kisses on her neck and behind her ears had done the trick. After a few minutes, it had gotten Santana to roll out of bed and stomp around the room all grumpy, getting dressed.

Now, after a ninety-minute 7:45am vinyasa yoga class, they were jogging home.

This part had been Brittany's idea. She never could stand being bottled up in a car after yoga class. Her muscles had all this stretchy lightness and energy in them after that, and her head felt all blissed out. She needed to move, to be outside. One time on the way home, she'd jumped out of her mother's car at a stop sign. Since then, her mother usually drove her to class and let her make her own way home.

Also, she didn't like to talk. Somehow, it broke the spell.

Earlier in the summer, Santana had grumbled and moaned about the after-class routine, too. She'd gone so far as to bring her own car so she didn't have to take part in it. Then one morning she found herself pulling into a park on her way home because the traffic was ruining her yoga buzz, and she realized that maybe Brittany was onto something.

This morning, a Sunday, it was still early enough that there wasn't too much noise on the suburban streets. You could hear church bells in the distance and smell bacon and eggs, or sometimes pancakes, drifting out of the kitchens of the early risers. The loudest sounds, though, were their breath and their footsteps; the strongest scent was still the trees and the damp, dewy air.

It was soothing. Brittany liked following the patterns of their steps that fell in and out of synch because her legs were just a little bit longer than Santana's. She also liked when they passed another jogger or bicyclist on the sidewalk. She always let Santana go ahead, and fell in line behind her to make way. Sometimes she watched Santana's sneakers hit the sidewalk in a rhythm, and sometimes she watched her ponytail bounce. Sometimes she stared at her cute little butt in her yoga pants.

This was one of those last ones. Santana looked back over her shoulder quizzically after Brittany failed to return to her side a few moments after the last jogger had passed by. Brittany tilted her head in an exaggerated gesture and let Santana figure out where she was looking.

Santana smirked and turned back around, and pointed a warning at the street lamp they were about to pass. They didn't need a repeat of a few weeks ago when Brittany had been staring at her a little too hard, and forgot to look where she was going.

Nonetheless, Santana slid her fingers beneath the hem of her tank top and hitched it up a few inches, revealing some skin above her waistline.

Brittany grinned. Not really at the skin so much as at Santana showing it to her.

It was understood that they wouldn't want Santana's parents to know they were home yet. Wordlessly, they cut through the side yard and climbed the tree in Santana's back yard that let them up to the first story roof, which gave them access to her bedroom window.

As Santana hoisted herself up ahead of Brittany, Brittany reached her hand between Santana's legs and tickled the inside of her thigh. Santana yelped and nearly fell through the window frame.

Brittany grinned at her, proud of herself, as they found themselves face to face in Santana's bedroom. Santana scowled unconvincingly, her hands on her hips.

Brittany took a step toward Santana and yanked her closer by the hips, then peeled the light gray tank top over Santana's head. Brittany bit her bottom lip at the sight of Santana in only the black sports bra she wore underneath. Santana smiled, and stood still to let Brittany stare.

Brittany took the bra off next, yanking it over Santana's head with a quick jerk that bounced Santana's breasts against her ribs. Then she leaned in close and took down Santana's hair, ruffling it with her fingers so it fell messy and tangled across her shoulders.

Santana smelled so good. Like shampoo, still, and other hair stuff that Brittany didn't understand, plus a little like outside and a little sweaty. It all added up to summer Santana.

Santana stood motionless, expectant. She watched as Brittany cupped her breasts in her palms and ran her thumbs over the nipples. She closed her eyes and smiled a little as they hardened under Brittany's fingertips. Holding her at her sides, Brittany backed Santana toward the bathroom.

Once inside, Brittany lifted Santana and set her down on the counter next to the sink while she started the water in the shower. Santana swung her legs side to side, her hands resting on the counter by her knees. Once Brittany was satisfied it was at the perfect temperature, she beckoned Santana over with her finger.

Santana hopped down and Brittany swept her eyes up and down. With a small circular motion of her index finger in the air, she told Santana to turn around.

Santana gave her a little, amused smile, and turned her back to Brittany. Brittany peeled Santana's yoga pants down, and off. Brittany sighed. Naked Santana was one of her favorite kinds of Santana.

She reached around Santana's front and covered her belly with her hands, pulling her ass back against herself, kissing where her neck met her shoulder. She really wanted to know if Santana was wet. That would mean the shower would be fun, and probably really long. She slid one hand lower on Santana until she found her answer. Santana made a cute little noise when Brittany went inside her with her middle finger.

She guided Santana toward the shower. Santana stepped inside and rinsed off, shampooing her hair as Brittany discarded her sweaty clothes on the bathroom floor, watching Santana through the sliding glass doors.

Another favorite thing about Santana, Brittany was reminded as she stepped into the shower, was how she had like a million kinds of soap, all lined up on the ledge at the back of the tub. They all smelled amazing. Even when they were little, Brittany loved taking baths at Santana's because of all those soaps.

Today Brittany chose vanilla. It went nice with the orangey one Santana was using.

She loved how their soapy skin felt sliding across each other as they shared the water to rinse off, all slippery and smooth. Santana poked at Brittany's belly with one of her knuckles. She was right, Brittany realized. If Brittany held them together that hard their bellies would stay all soapy. Reluctantly, she let Santana take one step backwards.

Then, having a concerned thought, she reached out and lifted Santana's boobs so the water could get underneath. You wouldn't want soap to get stuck in there, either.

For some reason, that made Santana laugh and kiss her.

Confident then that Santana and she were both rinsed clean, Brittany knew it was time for other things now. She took hold of Santana at her waist and pushed her back into the side wall of the shower.

Santana looked at her, waiting. Brittany knew that look, even through the foggy steam, and even though Santana had her left eye closed because water drops were hitting that side of her face. Brittany liked this look, but also knew that it was the look that came only a few minutes before impatient Santana, which was a little bit less fun.

She ran her hand along the inside of Santana's thigh, pushing upwards. Santana lifted her leg a little and rested her foot on the bathtub ledge. Brittany looked at the space between Santana's open legs, the little rivers of water flowing down to it and disappearing. She put her fingertips in their way, and watched as the water had to find new paths over Santana's skin.

Brittany bent her neck to kiss Santana, who tasted like Santana's lips plus water, and smelled like oranges and vanilla. She pressed her boobs to Santana's and felt a little gasp come out of her, against her mouth. She wiggled two fingers over Santana's clit, one on each side.

Santana's body went all tense right away, as soon as Brittany got it between her fingers securely. Santana's nails dug into the side of Brittany's neck and her ribs, and she stopped kissing Brittany, her head tilted back.

Brittany massaged, careful not to squeeze (Santana did NOT like that), watching Santana's face to know what was good and what was _really_ good. She changed directions sometimes – up and down, side to side, or circles. Sometimes she looked down to watch her fingers move on Santana's slippery skin.

Santana started rocking her hips against Brittany's hand, pressing the knee of her leg back harder against the side of the shower. It meant – _go inside_.

There were too many favorite places on Santana to name, but the place right now under the tip of Brittany's longest finger, up inside of Santana's body, might be the absolute best one.

It wasn't just that place, though, Brittany had figured out a long time ago; it was the way the muscles around it hugged her fingers, and the way the very top insides of Santana's thighs felt against the rest of her hand, all strong and a little wiry.

She stopped kissing Santana on her cheeks and her neck now, because she needed to focus. Wet skin was extra slippery. Santana opened her mouth and breathed hard in Brittany's ear and Brittany braced herself against the wall behind Santana.

Brittany liked looking down while she had sex with Santana. It looked so good, the way her fingers disappeared over and over inside Santana's body. Her stomach muscles had gotten even better lately, too, ever since they'd been working out so much. They flexed, relaxed, flexed, relaxed in a pattern that was getting steadily faster, and Santana was making little whining noises upon every flex.

Brittany used her whole arm now, pushing up inside her hard and pulling Santana's lower body against her each time with the force of her upstroke. The water made the smack of the skin of their bellies hitting together louder than usual.

Brittany took her fingers out, and Santana growled in protest. Brittany ignored her, bearing down on her clit with her fingertips, swirling the wetness from inside Santana all over it – if you rubbed Santana here until she could barely stand it anymore and then finished her inside, she had the best orgasms of all.

"Fuck," Santana whispered as Brittany slipped two fingers back inside.

Only a few seconds later, the best part was about to happen.

She knew first because Santana's leg, propped up on the ledge, started shaking. And then Santana's eyes squeezed shut and her mouth opened wide, and Brittany couldn't help but put her free hand on the side of Santana's face, cradling her cheek, pressing her fingers into the top of her neck.

"Oh. . . Britt," Santana said, all urgent and quick and full of breath.

Then she relaxed so much that Brittany was holding her up, letting Santana's breath come hard against her, kissing the side of her face and her lips and then the side of her face some more.

"You're so hot," Brittany murmured, and Santana smiled up at her shyly.

Santana kissed her, once she stood back up on her own legs. Then she ducked her head to suck on Brittany's nipples. Brittany loved that, feeling the warm water running over them and then the even warmer inside of Santana's mouth taking its place. She glided her hand over Santana's back, feeling the slickness from inside Santana rinse from her fingers in the falling water.

Santana knelt on the shower floor, pushing open the skin that hid Brittany's wetness. Brittany dug her fingers into Santana's hair as Santana craned her neck to get her tongue reaching up and in. She kept her hand there on Santana's head, because it blocked most of the water from falling on her face, and put the other hand on the side of Santana's face, stroking gently with her thumb.

For a while she watched Santana, especially the way the water cascaded down over her long, dark hair and her body. But then Santana slid a finger inside of her, and the tip of her tongue was rubbing tingles through Brittany's body, and Brittany had to close her eyes.

She felt her calves flexing and she rose to her tiptoes involuntarily. Santana had to lift herself to follow. Brittany held out her left hand as she was about to come, and Santana's right hand found it, entwining their fingers together. Brittany gripped it and held on tight as Santana's tongue finished her.

After it was over, Santana stood up, her chin all shiny, her lips dark. She let the water wash away the stickiness on her face and then she rested her cheek on Brittany's chest, hugging her tight.

The water was getting cold. Santana bent over to turn it off, and Brittany smacked her butt. Santana threw one of those mock glares that was totally unconvincing over her shoulder, and tickled Brittany's sides as they climbed out of the shower and wrapped themselves up in big, fluffy towels.

...

Santana and Brittany exited Santana's bathroom in a cloud of vanilla and citrus-scented steam.

"Shit, I'm dizzy," Santana said, taking a deep breath of the cooler air of her bedroom. "I think I need food."

"We were in there a long time," Brittany agreed. "Do you wanna go to the farmers market and get stuff for smoothies?"

"Fuck that," Santana replied, unwrapping her towel from her hair and wrapping it around her body. "We just exercised for three hours. Three and a half if you count the shower. I wants me a milkshake."

"Santana," Brittany said, suddenly stopping in her tracks partway across the room. "Why is Rachel in your bed?"

"What?"

Santana turned around. There was Rachel Berry, curled up and sleeping against Santana's pile of pillows.

"Was she there when we came in?"

"I don't know, I was looking at you."

"Britt, put your robe on," Santana said, and sat down next to Rachel on the bed.

"Berry?" she said, touching Rachel's shoulder.

Rachel stirred, and blinked her eyes up at Santana as though she didn't recognize where she was. As soon as the look of realization spread across her face, her arms shot up into the air and wrapped around Santana's shoulders.

Dread spread slowly through Santana's stomach. She was afraid she already knew the answer to the question she was about to ask.

She met Brittany's alarmed gaze over Rachel's shoulder and asked, "Rachel, what's wrong?"

"She broke up with me," Rachel whispered, digging her nails into Santana's bare shoulders. "It's over. She called me in the middle of the night."

Across the room, Brittany put her hands on her head in dismay.

"Why?" Santana asked. "For what? What did she say?"

"She was drunker than I've ever heard her before," Rachel said in a monotone, wiping her eyes. "She said a lot of different things," she sniffled. "Half of it didn't make sense."

Rachel looked like she'd replaced every shred of sleep last night with crying. Her eyelids were swollen and darkened, her face blotchy red, the outsides of her nostrils already peeling from the sweep of too many tissues.

"Things like what?" Santana prompted.

"Umm, she accused me of still liking you. Then when I said that was wrong, she said I didn't understand anything, and I didn't love her," Rachel recited it like she was spelling a long, painful word at a spelling bee. "She said I was being, um, pushy and that I always had to make things my way. She said things went too fast and she was tired of me making her scared all the time. And then," she said, blinking and sending tears floating down her cheeks. "She said she liked a boy."

"A boy? What the fuck? What boy?"

"She didn't tell me. I mean, I didn't ask because I dropped my phone by then."

A look of realization spread across Santana's face. "Where is she right now?"

"I have no idea. At home, probably, or church. She must be sick this morning, she was so drunk."

Santana unwrapped Rachel from her arms and laid her gently on a pile of pillows. She crossed the room to her dresser and pulled on underwear under her towel.

"What are you doing, Santana?" Brittany asked, following her.

"I'm going over there to punch Quinn's lights out," Santana said. "I need you to take care of Rachel," she added in a whisper.

Brittany's eyes widened in alarm. "But, maybe I should come with you," she said.

"What? No, you have to stay with her," Santana said, snapping closed the clasp on her bra. "We can't leave her alone like this."

"But, I don't know what to do with sad Rachel," Brittany said softly.

"Yes you do, Britt. You're like the sweetest person ever. Give her a hug, and see if she needs anything to eat. I'm not going to be gone that long." Santana kissed her on the cheek as she pulled on her jeans and grabbed her car keys off the dresser.

As the door slammed shut behind Santana, Brittany put the palms of her hands against her cheeks and stared down at Rachel Berry in a ball on Santana's bed.

**...  
><strong>

**Wednesday, July 27 / 9:27pm**

Quinn had a feeling something was up when Brittany called her out of the blue and asked if they could do an extra math practice for the SAT. Her first thought was of a trap being laid by Santana. She agreed to it anyway; mostly it was because she didn't have the energy to refuse.

Also, she supposed, some company besides her mother might be nice.

Now, as Brittany twirled her pencil in her hand for the 87th time, she was positive Brittany had ulterior motives. She had done exactly four math problems in the hour since she'd gotten here. That was a poor showing, even for Brittany, and Quinn was getting annoyed. If this was a trap, she'd like to get on with it.

"Brittany," Quinn said, slamming shut the study guide in front of them. "You hate these math lessons. Why are you here?"

Brittany pouted. "I realized I love special right triangles."

On Quinn's stare, she abandoned that story. "I was worried about you?"

"Really," Quinn said, "So you're not mad at me, too?"

"No," Brittany said, with a hitch in her voice.

"Why am I not convinced by that?" Quinn said. She rolled her eyes and glowered at Brittany, expecting to wait only a moment or two before Brittany spilled whatever it was her true purpose here was.

Instead, Brittany started to cry.

"Are – are you okay?" Quinn asked. Hesitantly, she put her hand on Brittany's shoulder.

"Quinn, Rachel is so sad."

_Oh. Here we go._ Quinn took her hand away.

"What's your point, Brittany? Do you have something to say?"

"I want to know how you do it. Like, how do you stand making somebody so sad?"

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest. Unbelievable. The tears were a really low blow. "If you're trying to tell me I'm a heartless bitch, Brittany, I wish you'd just come out and say it."

"Why would I say that?" Brittany asked, her confusion mounting. "Is that what you have to do? Be heartless? I don't really understand what that means, cause we learned in health class that it never even stops beating or you'll die."

"It means I'm doing what I have to do," Quinn said. This had to be a Santana plot that was only coming off weird because of the agent. "If you and Santana don't like it, nobody is forcing you to be my friend."

"Quinn, of course I want to be your friend. Why are you saying that I don't? I just want you to tell me how you keep from being upset that you made someone so sad."

A tear slid from the corner of Brittany's eye, and it tied up Quinn's tongue just long enough for Brittany's actual point to dawn on her. And now, Quinn felt truly awful. (And really, for her to notice an uptick in the amount of awful she was currently feeling on a regular basis was notable.)

Brittany's lip quivered, and Quinn felt a sting of regret in the pit of her stomach. She should be more careful, she realized. But sometimes accepting the amount of sheer sincerity Brittany could project wasn't easy.

She put her hand on Brittany's. "Is this about Artie?" she asked gently.

Brittany looked at Quinn with utter gratitude, as if she had been waiting a long time for someone to ask her that question. Quinn found herself mirroring Brittany's frown.

_What must it be like to be in love with somebody who bleeds earnestness like this? _Quinn caught herself thinking. _I couldn't do it._

"I thought that maybe you could help me because you had to do it too."

_Poor thing_, Quinn thought. _This must have been bothering her for months and then I made it worse by breaking Rachel's heart. _

"I'm not sure I can," she said carefully. "It hurts a lot, Brittany. I don't know if there's any way around that."

"He must have been so sad," Brittany said quietly. "Santana and I are trying to take good care of Rachel, but what if Artie was all alone?"

"No, he wasn't, Brittany. He has Puck, and Tina and Mike."

"Can I tell you a secret?" Brittany asked with a sniffle.

_It's not like I speak to anyone these days_, Quinn thought. "Go ahead," she said.

"I sent Artie a Facebook message the other day. He said we could see each other if I wanted to talk."

_Well, that's playing with fire. _

"So what did you say?" Quinn asked.

"I don't know yet," Brittany shrugged desperately. "Do you think I should?"

"I think. . ." Quinn said carefully, "I think you need to think about why you're keeping it a secret."

Brittany's face fell, and she stared at the floor. "Because she'd be super mad."

Quinn nodded. "It's hard to see the person you love with their ex," she said.

"You mean like Finn with Rachel?"

Quinn nodded. "Yeah, that's a good example."

"But isn't it so weird to go from loving someone and being with them every day to not talking to them at all? Like, why can't I talk to him?"

"That's just how it works sometimes. But, Brittany, have you tried talking to Santana about this? Maybe if you explained that you need closure, she would understand."

"What's closure?"

"I think it's what you want," Quinn said. "One way to get it is to have a talk. Talking about why things changed, and trying to feel okay with it."

"I totally want closure," Brittany said, nodding vigorously.

"Why don't you call Santana?" Quinn suggested. "Or go over there, so you can talk to her about this."

"I can't. She's out with Rachel."

"Rachel is out with Santana?" Quinn said, the edge returning to her voice.

"Yeah, Kurt and Blaine took them to a gay club in Toledo."

"Rachel and Santana are out at a gay club together? Right now?"

"It's sixteen and over night."

Quinn stared at Brittany incredulously. "And this is fine with you?"

"Why wouldn't it be? I was gonna go too, but I decided to come talk to you instead."

"Brittany? Do me a favor," Quinn said, sucking on the inside of her cheek.

"What?"

"When Santana comes home tonight, you tell her that if she gets to go out with her ex, you get to talk to yours. That's only fair."

"Maybe," Brittany said solemnly. "Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you and Rachel really over?"

Quinn nodded. "I have feelings for someone else."

"I loved you and Rachel being together, but. I guess it's like how I had to break up with Artie so I could be with Santana. Right?"

"I guess," Quinn said hesitantly.

"Like, it hurts to make someone you loved sad, but you have to be with the right person."

"Right."

Brittany leaned forward and encircled Quinn in a hug.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?" Quinn asked, wiping a tear from her eye over Brittany's shoulder.

"Can we watch TV? I don't actually like special right triangles that much."

"I had my suspicions," Quinn said, hugging Brittany back.

...

Quinn was almost asleep on the couch when her phone buzzed. She blinked over at Brittany, who was sitting on the recliner, hugging her knees to her chest and laughing silently at a marathon of Wizards of Waverly Place. Quinn fumbled for her phone beneath the blanket.

It was a text from Santana.

_She's really drunk. I tried to stop her._

Quinn sat up. That could only be about Rachel.

"What's wrong?" Brittany asked.

"Nothing, I just got a really weird text from Santana."

Brittany hopped from the recliner to the couch next to Quinn just as Quinn's phone buzzed again. This time it was from Rachel.

_You arre sstupdc._

"Does Rachel speak another language too?" Brittany asked with hushed awe.

"No, she's drunk," Quinn said. "And she's calling me stupid."

"But, I don't get it. You're the smartest person I know."

"She's mad at me," Quinn said. She set her phone down without replying.

It buzzed again ten seconds later.

_Wee coldgdve had what britten n Satan have _

Immediately following that, came:

_i new I wasnny prettty enugoh for yp_

and

_Sattana takes bitter care fo me then uyo_

"I'm going to bed," Quinn said, forcing her shoulders not to shudder. "You can stay if you want." Quinn tossed the remote into Brittany's lap and trudged up the stairs.

She was just about to turn off her bedside lamp and try to sleep when the final text message came.

_I kow you live me_

Quinn silenced her phone and tried to shrink herself away beneath the covers of her bed.

**...**

**Wednesday, July 20 / 3:22pm**

It was all Rachel could do to put one foot in front of the other as she forced herself to walk up the driveway to the Fabrays' front door.

She hadn't gone out of her way to look terrible; she pretty much woke up that way, and didn't have the energy to fix it. Part of her hoped Quinn would lay eyes on her and feel truly, gut-wrenchingly horrible. Another part of her thought that maybe Quinn felt that way already, and it didn't make any difference.

The hand holding the envelope trembled as she rang the doorbell. If anyone answered at all, it would be Quinn. Her car was here, and Judy's was gone. Rachel sighed as she heard footsteps inside the house. All she wanted from this encounter was to get out of it without crying. She could manage that much, right?

Quinn opened the door wordlessly. She looked awful – possibly even worse than Rachel did. Rachel allowed herself to feel satisfied by that.

"I'm not here to talk," Rachel said by way of a hello. "I'm here for your signature. We need to get a few things straight before we can continue with our summer." She was pleased to find that the shaking in her voice wasn't overtly noticeable. She opened the envelope and took out a two-page document.

"What is this?" Quinn croaked at her.

"It's a breakup contract," Rachel said matter-of-factly. "I realized this morning when Brittany and Santana got up for Bible School that we had a.. . a foursome problem. I think you'll find this document remedies some of the more pressing issues we're likely to face."

"A breakup contract?" Quinn repeated. Was that even a real thing?

"Item number one," Rachel continued, pointing to the first bullet point on the page. "You agree to switch to Bible school on Tuesday and Thursday, allowing me to keep Monday and Wednesday without any emotional turmoil. Feel free to ask Brittany to switch as well, but Santana stays with me on Monday and Wednesday.

Item two," she said, sliding her finger down to the next bullet point. "This item addresses our summer plans. First, you are no longer obliged to run for student government. In fact, as I'll be throwing all of my management efforts behind Brittany now, I must ask that you formally withdraw from school politics. You are also, obviously, no longer obliged to play in Santana's band, not that you ever wanted to in the first place. I'm sure it will break up unless we can get Puck or someone to play guitar, but knowing how important the all-girls aspect was to Santana, that's not likely to occur."

"Tina?" Quinn croaked.

"Santana will never bring in her or Mercedes, or anyone whose voice is competitive with hers. The band is destroyed."

"Moving on to item three. In signing this document, you, Quinn Fabray, agree to grant me, Rachel Berry, full custody of one Santana Lopez. While I realize the two of you are old friends, as the jilted party I feel justified in placing this perhaps unreasonable request. You have your new boyfriend and your friends from church, and since those are obviously the people who matter the most to you, it shouldn't be that hard to give up what passes for a friendship between the two of you. I need to be able to go to her house or hang out with her and Brittany without threat of the emotional trauma of seeing you, or risking that you're monopolizing her time."

"Fine, take her," Quinn said, her face blank.

"Fine," Rachel continued, flipping to the second page of the document. "The fourth and final clause states that upon returning to school in September, you, Quinn Fabray, agree to resign from The New Directions. I'm the one who made the club what it is, whereas you only joined to come after Finn. Or me, I'm not really sure. Either way, I can't have you around jeopardizing my focus and thus our chances to win a national championship. I'd like you to formally present your letter of resignation to Mr. Schuester on the first day of school.

Okay, that's it. If you agree to all these terms, please sign next to the second X, below my name."

Rachel held the pen out defiantly, daring Quinn to refuse to take it.

Quinn snatched the pen out of Rachel's hand immediately, scribbled an illegible signature, and shoved both it and the papers back into Rachel's hands.

"Is that it?" she said.

Rachel nodded. "Thank you for your time," she said, already turning away as the tears threatened to burst out of her at any second. "Have a nice life," she murmured to herself as she heard the door close behind her, and the first tears shot down her cheeks like little rockets.

Quinn ascended the stairs to her room, stunned. By the time she reached her bedroom doorway, the flimsy walls she'd built up to convince herself that her life was about to get much better were shaking like an earthquake. No Santana? No glee club? She hadn't pegged Rachel as quite so vengeful.

_People make new friends, Quinnie, maybe even ones in college, _she told herself_. It's fine._

But then suddenly her legs were running, despite her mental stupor. They were running toward the bathroom, and she was throwing open the toilet lid, and then she was throwing up, emptying her stomach of everything she'd eaten for lunch this afternoon.

A few blocks away, Rachel was sitting on a curb, holding the shreds of paper that used to be the breakup contract Quinn had signed only moments ago. She hadn't really authorized her hands to do that, to rip it up like that.

_But what did it matter, _she thought as she stood up and deposited them in the nearest trash can. Quinn had signed it. In fact, she had signed it without even blinking. _That was that_, Rachel thought to herself.

That was that.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N 1:** So I said to myself last week, "Hmm. So I've already switched pairings with in my universe, broken them up, had them cheat, had them be assholes, had them be miserable, fucked with the timeline to confuse everyone... what else can I _possibly_ do to alienate the people who are still reading my story?" And then it hit me: heterosexual relations!

Yes, there is girl/boy sex in this chapter. It's not graphic (at least, not compared to how I usually write sex), and it wouldn't be here if it wasn't crucial to the plot. It focuses on the mental process of the character, which is important because this chapter is a turning point for her. Nonetheless, if you'd like to skip it, it's in the second section marked July 30th and I'm delineating it with horizontal lines like the one you see below these author's notes.

**A/N 2:** For what it's worth, this is my favorite chapter, content-wise, I've written in this entire universe.

* * *

><p><strong>Wednesday, July 27  10:48pm**

When Santana's rational brain finally broke through the haze that had descended when Rachel started kissing her, it happened all at once, like she'd been struck by a bolt of lightning. Her eyes flew open, and she grabbed Rachel's hands on the small of her back, practically flinging them back at her.

Rachel staggered backwards dizzily. In the next two seconds, Santana watched as her face fell through a cascade of emotions – first stunned, then angry, then utterly horrified.

Rachel put her hand over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Wait, Rachel, don't –" Santana started to say, but it was too late to finish her sentence with "freak out," because Rachel had exited the dance floor at a sprint, and was already pushing past the line of waiting girls to get to through the bathroom door.

"Fuck," Santana cursed under her breath, and followed Rachel through the crowd.

"You are in so much troooouuble!" the girl who had hit on her at the bar called out as Santana rushed past.

Rachel had barreled through the ladies room line like a drunken torpedo, but Santana was too sober to be quite so pushy. By the time she caught up, Rachel had cut the line and locked herself in a stall. Santana crouched down to locate Rachel's shoes, then knocked on the corresponding door.

"Rachel, come out and talk to me, okay?"

"I might throw up," Rachel's thin, disembodied voice replied miserably.

"I don't care, okay? Just open the door."

After a pause, Santana heard the lock slide out of place and the door opened a few inches.

"Hey, there's a line back here!" a girl shouted at her from a few places back in line.

"Oh, yeah? You wanna join us in here, baby? I'll make sure when she pukes it lands on your shoes," Santana shot back.

Santana opened the door a bit further and slid inside, then locked it behind her. Rachel leaned against the thin metal wall, her hands resting on her thighs just above her knees.

"Are you okay?" Santana asked, putting one hand on Rachel's back.

"No," Rachel said in a whimper. "I feel sick. And I'm the most embarrassed I've ever been in my life."

"It's. . .it's no big deal, Rachel."

"I would almost believe you if you didn't sound like you were about to throw up, too."

"Look, if I had five bucks for every person I kissed accidentally when I was drunk, I could buy a Breadstix franchise. Shit happens when there's vodka, all right?"

"It's nice that you're trying to let me off the hook," Rachel said, letting her head fall forward so that her hair dangled in front of her. "But I'm not too drunk to know that was messed up."

"Berry, let's not get your hair in the toilet, okay?" Santana said, taking her by the shoulders to stand her upright.

Rachel closed her eyes and slumped against the wall. "Mmfff, too fast," she complained, wobbling in an unsteady circle.

But now that she was upright, Rachel met Santana's eyes for the first time since fleeing the dance floor. Immediately, her face scrunched up, and the tears began.

"God, Santana, I didn't mean to," she said. "I wasn't trying to like, you know—"

"I know, Rachel," Santana said.

"I'm so used to coming to you when I feel this lonely, and rejected, and STUPID. Please tell me I didn't ruin everything, like, our friendship."

Santana took a step forward and let Rachel lean into her shoulder, placing two reassuring hands on her back. Rachel clutched at the back of Santana's shirt.

"Does it feel like you've ruined it?" Santana asked.

Rachel hugged her gratefully, burying her face in Santana's shoulder.

"Do you want me to call Brittany and apologize? I'll do it right now – I'll explain what an idiot I am."

"That's okay, Berry. I think you'd better let me explain how much of an idiot you are."

Rachel sniffled out a syllable that was half laugh and half whimper.

"Just when I thought I couldn't feel any crappier, I go and prove myself wrong."

"Everybody will understand, Rachel, including Brittany."

"I'm just so sad, you know? And it won't go away. I think it's making me crazy," Rachel said, wiping tears from the eye that was not resting against Santana. "It sucks."

"I know," Santana said, cradling the back of Rachel's head with her hand.

"Nobody ever wannfffmg-HIC-mgghhp me," Rachel said, her words muffled by Santana's shoulder and a hiccup.

"Okay, I did not catch that one at all, Sniffly McBlubberpants," Santana said. "Try again."

Rachel turned her head toward the center of Santana's chest.

"I said, nobody ever wants to keep me. Not Finn, not you, not Quinn. Everybody always wants someone else more."

Santana grimaced, and squeezed Rachel. "You know Quinn wants to keep you. You know that."

Rachel shook her head glumly.

"She has a funny way of showing it."

"Yeah, I know."

"Santana?"

"Yeah?"

"Wait, I – I probably should not ask you this now that I think about it. My mind clearly has a mouth – I mean, my mouth clearly has a mind of its own at the present time."

"Well, either way you already opened it. Now you have to go ahead."

Rachel paused for a moment, as if gathering her courage.

"Do you think that ever. . . like if there were no Brittany, and if Quinn hadn't liked me. . . do you think that ever. . . _you_ might have wanted to keep me?"

"Berry," Santana sighed, looking up at the ceiling, "You're killing me, here."

"I'm sorry," Rachel said, shaking her head. "I'm so drunk. I knew I shouldn't have asked it."

Santana sighed.

"Sometimes, Berry," she said, "Sometimes I think we got out just in time. Right before shit between us got really fucking complicated."

Rachel nodded thoughtfully against Santana's shoulder. "Yeah."

"I really love you, you know," she said. "You probably think I'm just being drunk and I don't mean it, and, you know, maybe you're right and I wouldn't say it if I was not currently wasted, but really it is true."

Rachel punctuated her words by poking her index finger into the middle of Santana's chest. She hiccupped twice before continuing.

"It's so funny. Don't you think it's funny? I used to hate you but now I don't, because now I love you and Brittany both. Santana, did you and Quinn ever discuss how you both secretly liked me? Did you make an official pact to torment me, so no one would know?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, hobbit. I never liked you."

Rachel smiled. But it faded right away as the next round of thoughts flooded in.

"Santana, do you know who I do not love? Quinn," Rachel answered, before Santana had time to take a wild guess. "I need to tell her that. I think I should call her and tell her that, because the last she heard, it was the opposite of that."

Rachel withdrew her arms from around Santana and slid her phone out of her bra.

"Uh uh, not so fast," Santana said, taking the phone from her hand. "You know better than that, munchkin. No drunk dialing the ex-girlfriend."

"No, you're right," Rachel said, her eyes downcast. "That would be stupid." She held out her hand for Santana to place the phone back in her possession.

"I'm going to drunk TEXT." Before Santana could react, Rachel elbowed her out of the stall and locked the door behind her.

"Really?" Santana said, banging on the door with her palm. "This is the thanks I get for letting you get snot all over my shoulder?"

"This will only take a moment!" Rachel said. "And then I will become nice once more!"

Santana considered crawling under the door of the stall, but they were making enough of a spectacle as it was. She sighed, and leaned against the sink to wait. She took out her phone and sent Quinn one text message.

_She's really drunk. I tried to stop her._

_...  
><em>

Eventually, her anger spent via text message, Rachel allowed herself to be herded back out to the booth where the rest of their group was waiting.

"Is she okay?" Sam asked, eyeing Rachel as she slumped against Santana's side.

"She's fine. We have a case of the drunk weepies going on, but we're fine, right Berry?"

Rachel nodded miserably.

"Can you guys watch her for a minute?" Santana asked the group at large. "I couldn't actually USE the restroom with her blubbering all over me."

"I got it, go ahead," Puck said, transferring Rachel to his side and sitting down with her in the booth.

_You okay?_ he mouthed to Santana over the top of Rachel's head.

Santana shrugged, which was the most honest answer she could give him. She turned and headed for the bathroom.

More than anything, she felt exhausted. And that really sucked, because she knew the night wasn't nearly over. Washing her hands at the sink, a few shaky, silent sobs escaped her. For Rachel, for herself, for Brittany, even Quinn? She couldn't say.

She touched up her eye makeup before rejoining her friends.

"Warn us if you have to puke, you got that?" Santana urged as they loaded Rachel into the back of Blaine's car.

"I will," Rachel assured her.

"You and Brittany are so lucky," she sighed, slumping against Santana as Blaine pulled out of the club's parking lot. "You guys have to get married. Do you promise you'll get married?"

"I should probably ask Brittany first before I promise, don't you think?" Santana elbowed her gently.

"I guess that is fair," Rachel conceded. "When you get married, though, you have to let me plan your wedding. I'll plan everything for you, and you'll say you hate it, but secretly you'll like it, just like how you secretly liked me."

"Berry."

"What?"

"Did you just ask to be my maid of honor?"

"Nooo, I would never do that," Rachel said, drawing her knees up to her chest and leaning her head against Santana's shoulder with a smile. "We hate each other."

...

Brittany met them on the front porch of her house, and helped Santana get Rachel up the stairs. Together, they tucked her in for the night on what the members of the Pierce family had come to accept was "her" couch in the family room. They left her a glass of water, a couple of painkillers, and a wastebasket just in case, before tiptoeing up to Brittany's room.

It had been one of the longest car rides of Santana's life, this trip home from Toledo. She never considered for a moment not telling Brittany what had happened, though the thought of it had her heart pounding painfully in her chest. For one thing, half of the glee club had seen it happen. It wasn't like it could be kept from her anyway.

And the other, probably more important reason was, it had helped her come to few realizations.

Santana caught Brittany's hand as she was heading for the bathroom to brush her teeth.

"Wait, can I talk to you?" she asked in a small voice.

Brittany nodded, and Santana guided her to the bed where they sat facing each other, legs crossed in front of them.

Santana took Brittany's hands. "I have to tell you something that happened tonight."

"Okay," Brittany said.

"Rachel got really drunk."

"I know, Quinn told me."

"Quinn?"

"Yeah, I went to her house."

"Oh. Okay, well anyway Brittany, she. . . Rachel kissed me."

Santana held her breath. She thought she saw Brittany's shoulders stiffen, but her face was unreadable as she asked, simply, "What?"

"It happened while we were dancing," Santana explained, the tears beginning to burn the backs of her eyes and the top of her nose. "I was totally caught off guard."

Brittany's cheeks felt hot. For some reason she felt like she couldn't look at Santana's face, and the words she wanted to say got stuck in her throat.

"I'm so, so sorry, Brittany," Santana was saying. "And Rachel is, too. She feels terrible, and she's really worried that you're going to be mad at her."

"I'm not mad at her," Brittany said, because these words were easy to get right out. "She was sad and drunk."

But she still wasn't looking at Santana.

"And me?" Santana asked quietly.

"Did you kiss Rachel back?"

Santana squeezed her eyes shut and tears fell. "At first, yeah, I did," she said. "She surprised me, and it was familiar and everything. But, I stopped as soon as I realized what I was doing."

Brittany felt a little dizzy.

"I'm so, so sorry, Brittany," Santana said again. "But, listen, there are other things I wanted to tell you, too. While we were there, before anything bad happened, I met this group of guys. They were Kurt and Blaine's friends, and they go to Toledo, and they were super, super gay. Brittany, I decided I want to go there. With you. I'm not going to go to USC, I want to go with you."

"I accept your apology, Santana," Brittany said dully, finally looking Santana in the eye. "I feel upset in my stomach, but my brain believes you. You don't have to promise me you'll go to Toledo just to get me to forgive you."

"I'm not," Santana shook her head. "Because, Britt, I realized something tonight. I realized that like, there are other people in the world who maybe I could like. Or if things happened differently, ones I could even love. But I don't _want_ to, Brittany. I don't, because I want to love you. I always have, and like – I picked you before I even knew it."

She paused, but Brittany said nothing.

"Are you hearing me, Britt?" she prompted softly.

"Are you just saying this stuff because you feel bad?"

"No. No, trust me, I feel fucking horrible, Brittany, but I feel really happy, too. I feel so grateful, you know? To have you. That's what. . . that's exactly what I'm trying to tell you."

Brittany gave Santana a begrudging smile. "Okay."

"So are we okay?"

"Yeah, Santana."

Santana returned Brittany's smile, the relief flooding her whole body, and leaned forward and hugged her.

"I'll never do anything like that again, okay? I promise."

"Yeah."

When they broke the hug, Brittany reached across to Santana's face and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She looked at Santana for a minute, thinking.

"Santana," she said. "I have to ask you for permission to get something. Quinn says it's called 'closure.'"

...

**Saturday, July 30 / 1:12pm**

"You seem better, Rachel," Brittany said, sipping her soda.

"Thank you, Brittany! I feel better," Rachel said, smiling cheerfully and dipping a French fry enthusiastically into a blob of ketchup.

"Well, I feel awful, if anyone cares," Santana volunteered. "I can't believe I agreed to eat at a Denny's."

"But, you ate your whole salad," Brittany pointed out.

"That doesn't mean I've retained my dignity."

Rachel continued, ignoring Santana.

"Having hit what can only be considered rock bottom the other night, I'm determined not to let this unfortunate situation with you-know-who ruin the rest of my summer. I still have my summer plans, not to mention my very first community theater role. I'm officially moving on."

Santana sighed. It was nice, for sure, to have Rachel off of the couch and out in the world, especially with no vodka involved. But this talk of moving on was depressing her. She scowled.

"Are you sure you don't want to try to bring Quinn to her senses first? Send her naked pictures or something? I mean, have you even tried that?"

"Santana," Rachel said, sitting up straight and leaning forward intently, "The definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting different results. I've spent far too much of my young life pining over someone who has clearly moved on. I did that with Finn, and I refuse to repeat the mistakes of my past. No – Rachel Berry is going relationship-free. No more commitment, no more rebound sex. I'm going to try something new – I'm going to date. I'm going to date multiple people. I'm going to play the field, if you will."

Santana scowled harder.

"Are you going to date boys or girls?" Brittany asked.

"Excellent question, Brittany! And the answer is. . . I have no idea. I don't know. Maybe both. Whoever is attractive to me at the time. Maybe boys, because that's simpler. I don't know, we'll have to see. Anyway, onward ladies! I've scheduled us all an afternoon at the spa for mani-pedis. I want a refreshed look that says Rachel Berry is single and looking, but not for anything serious, because I'm just getting over a breakup that shattered my heart into a million pieces."

"She's really hyper," Brittany said to Santana as they climbed out of their booth.

"I'm going to punch Quinn in the throat," Santana replied.

**...  
><strong>

**Saturday, July 30 / 8:55pm**

A few days after breaking up with Rachel Berry, Quinn finally accepted her coworker Doug's invitation to go out.

Tonight was their third date.

The first time, he took her for coffee and walked her home. For the second date, they did the classic dinner and a movie thing; he took her to Applebee's and then to the final Harry Potter movie. (Quinn had already seen it, but she didn't mind going again.) When he brought her home, they made out on the front porch until her mother opened the door and told him good night. Quinn was relieved – elated, really – to find that he made her cheeks flushed, among other physical reactions. Later that night when she resolved her tension, it was still all about Rachel. She figured that was bound to happen for a while.

Judy found him charming, with reservations, naturally suspicious of a college junior taking her 17-year-old daughter out on dates.

"I'm not sure what he wants from you, Quinnie," she said nervously as Quinn rolled her eyes and headed up the stairs.

Overall, Judy was so innocuous that Quinn almost found her naivety cute.

Nonetheless, she had lied tonight, the night of their third date. She'd said she was going out with Santana. In Judy's eyes, Quinn knew, that wasn't all that much better, but she figured there would be fewer obvious objections. The devil you know, right?

The fact was, Quinn was going to have sex tonight. She knew it, and she imagined that Doug knew it, too. Looking at it from his perspective, Quinn figured, he must know. He was older and more experienced, and she'd been letting him do whatever he wanted so far, including getting to second base in the dark room at the lab earlier this week.

He brought her to a romantic little café, which was not easy to find in Lima, Ohio. He ordered appetizers, steaks, and dessert. He flirted, reached across the table to touch her face. He smiled and said all the right things, laughed at all the perfect moments.

Quinn's assessment was that he was polished, charming, and utterly, transparently fake, like her father talking to the hot young secretaries at the office Christmas party. Quinn figured this was fine; they didn't know each other well enough yet to be comfortable. You have to have some strategy for smoothing things over, so his polish was welcome if it moved things along.

In a way, though, it actually made her miss Finn, and even Sam. Of course they had wanted to get into her pants, too, but at least they'd had the courtesy to be intimidated by her.

Yet, college boys did have their charms. Doug was impressively smart, and Quinn loved talking to him. Which made all this – the fact that she was here, and the speed of it – a little easier to justify. By the third course of their meal, though, she was tired of talking and really just wanted to get on with it.

All those hormones that were released when a woman has sex, those were bound to make her feel closer to him – it couldn't happen soon enough. Yes, she had wrestled with the fact that it was a sin, but it was a sin in service of the greater good.

His apartment was sparse, but not unattractive. She'd braced herself for empty pizza boxes and underwear all over the place, which is what she pictured a college guy's place to look like. But aside from some smelly sneakers on the living room floor, it was nearly immaculate. Quinn imagined what it would look like if Finn or Sam had to clean up after themselves. The thought made her quite sure the cleanliness meant Doug had figured that they would make it back to his place tonight.

"My roommates are gone for the night," he said with a smile that tried and failed to look uneager.

* * *

><p>The couch he pinned her down on, where he was kissing her and unhooking her bra, was soft and comfy against her bare back. Once he had comfortably rounded second base and was making his approach to third, he invited her into his bedroom. Quinn refused. The couch was better.<p>

He never asked her if it was okay to keep going, and it was new for Quinn to be with someone without that sense of formal apprehension once things got to a certain point. She figured if she told him to stop, he would.

It was a surreal moment, when Doug stood up to take off his boxers and Quinn found herself staring at a naked man for the very first time. Again, there was relief – she didn't feel repulsed. She liked the look of _it_, actually. There was a little bit of giddiness – a bit of _whoa, look at that_, and a fair measure of curiosity as to how different it would feel now that she was used to someone softer and smaller.

It looked kind of big, but then again, she reasoned with herself, she had given birth just over a year ago, so how bad could _this_ be? She relaxed her muscles as he put his fingers between her legs to open her, and found that it didn't hurt too much as he pushed himself inside of her.

She had made sure he wore a condom. She may be dimly aware that she was self-destructing, but she wasn't about to go down _that_ road again. He seemed to feel that using protection went without saying.

It wasn't bad, so far. He started slowly, and it gave her good feelings of friction. His heavy hands covered her breasts in a nice way. She could tell he liked her body a lot, the way he was looking at it as things got going, and that helped. It helped to feel admired.

As he got more enthusiastic, he propped her legs up over his shoulders, and the angle inside of her changed. Her eyes rolled back in her head as he hit a really good spot with every thrust. Maybe this was going to be better than she was expecting.

And then, all of a sudden, there was nothing. Confused, she lifted her head and looked down. He'd fallen out of her.

"Shit," he muttered, and put it back in with Quinn's legs back down around his waist. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Quinn panted, but found herself tilting her hips upward to try to get that angle back a little.

He noticed, and pulled her up to a sitting position, then leaned back so that she was sitting on top of him. Quinn liked this idea. It was always so hot when she did this with Rachel. _God, you idiot, stop thinking about her._

It didn't occur to Quinn that if they did it this way, she'd have to do a lot more of the moving. That made her a little embarrassed, but she whimpered and moaned as she rocked her hips up and down on him, trying to get past it.

In a puzzled voice, he asked if she was okay.

Quinn flushed with embarrassment. Rachel loved – encouraged, even – her noises. She leaned forward and took him by the shoulders to get him back on top.

There was a long time – it felt like forever – where Quinn felt that she was about three-quarters of the way to finishing. And she had no idea how to round that last corner. Thinking of Rachel was supposed to be off-limits, and honestly, it was too horrible to contemplate in this moment.

Yet, it wasn't going to happen naturally with this sweaty stranger on top of her. It was clear, eventually, what she would have to do, especially when he put his hand between her legs and actually successfully found her clit. Shouldn't that kind of incentive be rewarded? The moan she let out as his fingers massaged her wasn't forced, not entirely.

She read his cues. When she consciously tightened around him he moaned and thrust harder. He was expecting it soon.

"Come on, Quinn," he grunted. "Come on."

Any chance she had of actually making it happen evaporated when he put that pressure on her to come. Anxiety settled into her belly. She'd never faked it before. How does one even do that? _Think back, Quinn, what does Rachel's body do?_

She waited what she felt to be a realistic ninety seconds after he asked for it, and then dropped her head backward. She opened her mouth and bounced her hips and tightened her stomach muscles. A few seconds later she let out an, "Ohh!"

It must have been convincing enough, because he let himself finish a minute or so later.

* * *

><p>Afterward, he kissed her cheeks sweetly.<p>

"Was it okay for you?" he asked.

"Yeah," she smiled. "It was good."

He offered her food and something to drink as she sat up and put her clothes back on. He even asked if she wanted to stay the night.

She politely declined, saying her mother was expecting her. She checked her watch and felt surprised to see that the whole thing had taken less than an hour.

He kissed her in the front seat of his car as he dropped her off, so that Judy wouldn't see him. He said he would call her tomorrow, and Quinn believed him.

When she got home, she called out to her mother that she was back, and went directly up to her room.

She sat on her bed in the dark for a long time, hugging a pillow to her chest. Around midnight, she took a shower. A few hours later, she took a long bath. Around 4am, she smoked half a joint. She forced herself to wait until the sun came up before she drove to Santana's.

**...  
><strong>

**Sunday, August 7 / 3:30pm**

"Brittany! It doesn't help you remember the important details if you underline the entire passage."

Rachel stopped her timer and glared at Brittany, who was working on a reading comprehension section for the SAT.

"Sorry Rachel. I just hate making some of the words feel left out."

Rachel pressed her lips together, then sighed. "Okay."

She had spent enough time with Brittany this summer to get past that sort of statement much more easily than she used to.

"Can we take a break?" Brittany said, setting down her pencil without waiting for her proctor to permit it. "I want to hear about how are your dates going, Rachel."

Rachel knew she should have scolded Brittany for going off-topic. It was August, and neither of her pupils had yet successfully finished a section of the SAT in one sitting. The truth was, though, that Rachel wasn't all that into tutoring today, either.

"Fine, I guess," she answered. "I went to the movies with Thomas two days ago."

"Thomas Durand? But I thought you weren't supposed to date other volunteers at Bible school."

"I've already gotten used to hiding my relationships. It's not really a stretch."

"So how did it go?"

"I don't think it's going to work out," Rachel said, wrinkling her nose. "I think it's cute when boys are shy, but I'm not sure I have the patience for someone who breaks out into hives when I come within a one-foot radius."

"You come within one-half of his diameter?" Brittany asked, her brow furrowed.

"I mean when I get within a foot from him, but good memory of math terminology. Your sessions with Quinn must be really helping."

"I totally love math now," Brittany said, enthused. "I mean, math with actual numbers. I still don't like math with letters and shapes, I think it's unnatural."

Rachel smiled. "It's a start."

"So, have you gone out with any girls?"

"No. To be honest, Brittany, I'm not sure I want to."

"Why not?"

"I was doing just fine sticking to boys up until a few months ago. Being with a girl makes everything more complicated, and to be perfectly blunt, I find it confusing."

"Confusing how?"

"I don't know, having too many options. Having to decide what I am. Maybe I want to chalk this all up to a youthful bi-curious phase and put it behind me."

Brittany picked up her pencil again and doodled swirls on her test booklet. "If that's what makes you happy, Rachel."

Rachel smiled. That was all Brittany ever wanted, really.

"I'm sorry I was so depressing to be around for a while, there," she said. "I know it was rough on you."

"It's okay," Brittany said. "I guess it was good for me to hang out with you and see that you started to feel better."

"So how are things with you and Santana? I've been so engrossed in my personal drama and my rehearsal schedule lately that I haven't been a very good friend."

Brittany shrugged. "Mostly good. We fight sometimes, though. Santana is really stressed out."

"About what?"

"She needs to come out to her mom. She really cares so much what her mom thinks, so I think it's really hard for her to worry about it. And she keeps getting in trouble by her parents because they don't know where she is at night. They're fighting all the time."

"How do you think she'll take it? Her mom, I mean?"

"Santana is convinced she's going to be disappointed and upset, but I think she's wrong."

"What's her mom like? I never met her officially."

Brittany smiled. "She's so awesome! She's hot, and smart, and scary. It's totally what Santana is going to be like when she grows up. I can't wait."

Rachel smiled back. "I'm sure she'll work up the courage, Brittany. If you guys are really going to college together, she'll have to, right?"

"Well, that's another thing, though," Brittany said, her smile collapsing.

"What?"

"I don't know, I guess. . . I guess I'm scared Santana only said she wanted to go to Toledo because she felt guilty about when you guys kissed."

Rachel winced. "I'm sorry, once again, about that."

"It's okay, Rachel. It's just, Santana still talks about how amazing the squad was in California. I don't want her to go with me just to make me happy, or because she's afraid one of us will cheat if we're in different places."

"Yeah, of course. She has to go where she's going to be happiest when you consider everything. So have you talked to her about this stuff?"

"A little. But I hate starting it when it could turn into a fight."

"Yeah," Rachel said, thinking. "Look, Brittany, I know better than anyone what it's like to love someone who has her share of inner turmoil. And I'm no expert on how to handle it, clearly. But if you want my advice, don't gloss it over or wait until a small problem turns into a big one. Take it from me, it could get too big for you to even understand, so don't be afraid to bring it up."

"But sometimes when I try to give her advice she just tells me to back off, and tells me I don't understand anyway."

Rachel smiled wryly. "I've heard that one myself. But sometimes she's probably right, you know – like, a problem that seems small and easily solvable to you might be huge and scary to her. She has to deal with it the way it works for her."

Rachel paused, and stared pensively at the wall behind Brittany.

"Santana and Quinn aren't that different, you know. I guess Santana understands that better than anyone; it's why she dragged Quinn out of the closet in the first place, to have an ally who understood."

And that's when a terrible realization formed in Rachel's head.

"Oh my God, Brittany. I was such a horrible girlfriend."

"No way, Rachel. Why would you say that?"

"Because I didn't do any of this stuff I just told you to do. All I did was try to get Quinn to do things my way, from that stupid plan at the beginning of summer to forcing her to fight when she wasn't ready to open up. And I only did that after I'd already ignored things for so long I didn't understand them at all. And then, when she couldn't take it anymore and broke up with me, my first reaction was to isolate her from her friends."

"Didn't she kind of isolate herself, Rachel? She stopped coming to all of our stuff and wouldn't text us back and stuff."

"No, she. . . you don't understand. It was my fault that she did that."

"It was?"

"Brittany, listen. My advice on Santana? Make sure she knows how important she is to you. Santana has to feel like the best, okay? You have to always reassure her that she is, especially to you."

"Where are you going, Rachel?"

"I have to write a letter," Rachel said, heading for the door of the study. "You should keep going on that passage, okay? I'll be back."

Rachel rushed out of the study and up the stairs to her room. She sat down at her computer and logged in to Facebook.

...

Dear Quinn,

I wanted to tell you that I ripped up the contract that we signed. It was wrong and selfish of me to try to isolate you from your friends that way, and I'm sorry.

I also wanted to tell you that I don't blame you, not entirely, for the demise of our relationship. I've realized I made a lot of mistakes. I want you to know that if I could do the summer over again, I would. I know that's a meaningless thing to say now that we've both moved on, but nonetheless, I wanted to say it.

The truth is Quinn, I think you need a little help to get through the problems that you're having. I think you need more than I or your friends can give you, but not isolating yourself is a start. And whether it's from your church or therapy or a new love, Quinn, I hope you find the help you need.

Sincerely,

Rachel

...

**Sunday, July 31 / 6:30am**

As Quinn hoisted herself from the tree in the Lopezes' back yard to the roof outside Santana's window, she had to wonder exactly how crazy Santana would think she'd gone when she showed up in her room at 6:30am.

As she gently lifted the perpetually unlocked bedroom window, she observed gratefully that Santana was alone, and at least partially clothed.

Distant memories reminded Quinn that Santana didn't enjoy being awakened before she was ready. Thus, the more gently this was done, the less likely it was to result in bodily injury. Quinn sat softly on the unoccupied side of Santana's bed – Brittany's side, she presumed. Santana was asleep on her belly, her head turned away from Quinn.

She shook Santana's shoulder. Santana stirred, and rolled onto her left side, facing Quinn. She furrowed her brow with closed eyes and flung her arm over Quinn's lap. "Nooo, not now," she whined. "Go back to sleep."

"Santana," Quinn whispered sharply, not wanting this particular case of mistaken identity to go any further. "It's Quinn."

Santana took her arm away and her eyes flew open. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

It was a fair question. Quinn had no idea how to answer it.

"_I feel like a slut and you're the first person I thought to come to"_ seemed excessively bitchy for the circumstances.

"_I'm freaking out, and you're my only_ _friend"_ was a bit raw.

"Can you just wake up, please?" Quinn answered.

Santana sensed Quinn's urgency through her grogginess. She forced herself to sit up, covering her eyes with her hand against the soft blue light from the windows. She blindly fumbled for her phone on the nightstand next to her and checked the time.

"Bitch, it is early," she rasped, finally fully opening one eye so that she could glare more effectively.

"I know, I'm sorry," Quinn whispered. "I've been up all night."

A few days ago Quinn might not have permitted herself to come here. There were some barriers that she didn't normally cross with Santana – certainly not ones that required her to show when she was actually vulnerable. But sitting here, her head about to boil over with the mess running through it, all Quinn could think of was the way Brittany had looked at her the other night when they talked about Artie.

There was something in Santana, whether anyone else knew it or not, that responded to – that even sought out, perhaps – that kind of sincerity. Maybe if Quinn dropped the shield, dropped the pretense that she didn't desperately need a friend right now, maybe there could be some kind of tenderness in Santana for her, too. Fuck, what did she have to lose?

She leaned over and put her head on Santana's shoulder.

When she felt Santana's skinny, strong arms hesitantly encircling her, the sobs came fast and easy.

Santana was only 80% sure this wasn't a dream. But if it wasn't, she had a few ideas about what might be going on here. A blowup fight with Rachel, maybe. . . leftover tensions boiling over, or an attempt at reconciliation gone wrong? Maybe Quinn's mother or, god forbid, her father finding out about Rachel?

Whatever it was, this was serious distress. Santana had consoled Quinn, with varying degrees of supportiveness, through disappointments and breakups lots of times over the years. Her inclination was always to take Quinn Fabray down a peg or two. Because let's face it, usually this girl needed to get over herself.

But now, with Quinn shaking with sobs against her, none of that applied. As the crying went on, Santana eventually came to realize that this couldn't be just about Rachel. Something had rattled Quinn to the bone.

Santana did not let go of Quinn as she quietly asked, "Quinn? Can you tell me what happened?"

The care that Santana had taken with that question, down to her tone of voice, was not lost on Quinn.

She sat up, and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from her jacket pocket. As Quinn tried to compose herself, Santana hugged the blanket to her chest, awake enough now to be self-conscious about her nightgown and messy hair.

_Okay, not about you, Santana_, she reminded herself.

Quinn straightened her spine, looking Santana in the eye and blinking a fresh set of tears down her cheeks. To Santana, it looked as though she were holding her breath.

"I slept with Doug," she finally exhaled.

"Oh, Q," Santana sighed. What a fucking recipe for disaster. "When, last night?"

"I needed to know," Quinn continued, nodding. "And now I feel. . . I feel so stupid."

"No, you're. . . you're not stupid, Quinn," Santana said, reaching for her hand. "You're confused."

Quinn gripped Santana's hand.

"I always thought this thing with Rachel would be over once I met the right guy," she said, crying again. "I thought I would get it out of my system. Everything about Doug is right, you know? He's smart, and he's cute, and he treats me so well. But I don't feel happy, I feel gross, and cheap."

She shook her head and blew her nose.

"How did you do it, Santana?" she asked. "How did you sleep with guys you didn't even like without it bothering you?"

"Who says it never bothered me?" Santana said, not thinking about it long enough to censor it.

Quinn looked up at her in surprise.

"I couldn't do it now, Q," she added. "Not anymore."

Quinn understood that she meant, not since loving Brittany. "I felt like I had to," Quinn said, feeling even more like a failure now.

"So, like. . . did you find out what you needed to know?" Santana asked.

"I don't know." Quinn said defeatedly.

"But I mean . . . did you like it?"

Quinn sniffled and shrugged. "I'm not in love with him. Of course it wasn't going to be any good, I don't know why I thought it would be."

"Look, Quinn, I know this doesn't mesh with your fantastical 'true love waits' thing, but you don't have to be in love to like having sex with someone."

Quinn's shoulders caved in toward her chest and she began to pitch forward. Santana took her back into her arms.

"It was boring," Quinn choked out into Santana's shoulder. She felt Santana nodding.

"I faked it," she added.

"Maybe he just sucked at it," Santana offered. "Maybe it was him, and another guy would –"

"He didn't suck at it," Quinn cut her off. "I think he was actually pretty good. I just didn't. . . _care_."

Santana held her in silence. There wasn't much that needed to be said after that.

"I have to get rid of him."

"Well, good luck with that now that he knows you put out."

Quinn chuckled in spite of everything, and in that moment she knew for sure that coming here hadn't been a horrible mistake. She sat up, and Santana offered her a small smile.

"I'm sorry for waking you up and . . . all of it."

"You've apologized to me twice in the last half hour, Q. Quit freaking me out."

"I'll go now, and get out of your hair."

"You can't drive like this, Quinn. You're too upset."

Quinn blinked more tear tracks down her cheeks, wanting desperately to not go back to her lonely little bedroom.

"Just lie down." Santana fluffed one of her pillows and set it on the far corner of the mattress.

Quinn obeyed, collapsing eagerly into a ball. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I should go but I . . . I haven't slept since yesterday."

Santana spread her comforter over Quinn, and leaned back against the headboard, clutching her pillow to her chest. Quinn's sniffling ceased almost immediately, and her breathing grew shallow.

_Jesus Christ Lopez, you had to be so fucking smart, didn't you? Let's just shove Quinn out of the closet and into Rachel's arms. Like oh, ha ha, won't it be easier if we're all in the same boat together? _

_Fucking brilliant, _she thought to herself, wiping the tears from her eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Tuesday, August 16 / 9:19am**

Santana woke up with a start, and found herself on her stomach, clinging to her pillow with one hand and a wrinkled bunch of the sheet in the other. She held her breath, flattening herself against the mattress.

Okay – it was okay, she decided after a moment of steadying herself. She felt normal, not hot and dry and dizzy.

Santana rolled over onto her back, clutching the pillow against her chest. She turned her head to her left, where Brittany still slept soundly. The familiar ache that seemed to have greeted her every morning this summer welled up in the pit of her stomach.

She touched Brittany's cheek lightly with the back of her hand, letting her fingers fall across Brittany's lips and feeling her warm breath against them.

_My mama doesn't know about you. _

It was a realization that Santana had to have anew every single morning, and every single morning it felt like a fresh wound.

It was a lie, a sin by omission that was growing bigger all the time, like a snowball on a hill. It grew every time she and Brittany spent the night together, and every time they had a talk that brought them closer. It was a lie that was beginning to take over her whole life at home, causing fights over curfews and tears at night and panic attacks in the wee hours of the morning. It split her into two different people, neither of whom was quite real.

The movement of Santana's fingers against her face fluttered open Brittany's eyelids. She rolled onto her side, taking Santana's hand between hers.

"Are you okay?" she asked automatically.

Santana smiled sadly. How much longer could she ask Brittany to wake up like this, to a girlfriend wracked with nightmares or weepy with despair or mad at the world?

It wasn't even a decision, really. She just couldn't do it anymore.

"Yeah. I'm okay," she said.

"You seem weird," Brittany said, morning grogginess making her even blunter than usual.

Santana smiled again.

"Yeah. It's because I'm calm."

Brittany regarded Santana for a few seconds, puzzling over this unfamiliar state of things.

"When do you want to do it?" she asked, finally.

"Not today," Santana said quickly. "Too fast. And not tomorrow – she has a deadline tomorrow and she'll be tired. Thursday," she said firmly. "How about Thursday?"

Brittany squeezed Santana's hands.

"Whenever you want," she said. "I'll call Rachel today."

...

**Wednesday, August 17 / 7:12pm**

Quinn sat at her desk, thumbing through a stack of library books that somehow seemed like they must be even heavier than the trees they came from. The flashing cursor in the middle of page 18 of her summer research paper taunted her from the computer screen.

Her phone vibrated, clattering against the desk so loudly in her quiet room that she gasped in surprise. She flipped it over to see who it was, and held it in her hand, frozen.

Staring back at her in white block letters was the word "Archie." God, she really needed to change Rachel's name back to normal in her contacts.

So this was probably a pocket dial, right? There wasn't any good reason Rachel should be calling on purpose – what needed to be said at this point that couldn't be done through texts or something? Unless. . . was Quinn supposed to have responded to Rachel's Facebook message last week? She hadn't felt like doing that, the words about "moving on" leaping out at her the way they did.

Quinn sat unmoving until the phone stopped buzzing. She held her breath, waiting to see if there would be voicemail. Instead, she heard the familiar chime of a text message notification.

_Can you please pick up? Not going to yell at you._

A second one came right on its heels. _It's important._

Quinn's phone rang again immediately. Barely breathing, she answered Rachel's call.

"Hi," Quinn said, noting with annoyance how the quiver in her voice could show itself through one measly syllable.

"Hello, Quinn."

"Hey, Rach. . .uhh, Rachel. What's up?"

Quinn winced at the sound of her own voice. Could she sound any more fucking stupid? The answer was no. No, she could not.

"How are you doing, Quinn?" Rachel was asking. "I was glad to see you back at Bible school this week."

"I'm . . . uhh, okay. Keeping busy, I guess."

"Good. That's good. Me too. Listen, Quinn, I'm calling because I got a call from Brittany yesterday morning."

"Oh?"

"Santana's coming out to her mother tomorrow. Brittany wants us to be there for moral support."

"Oh," Quinn said, swallowing her startled reaction. "She wants us to be, like, in the room? When it happens?"

"I don't think so. Just, around."

"Okay. Yeah, of course. I'll be there."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Obviously, we'll have to leave any tension between us at the door," Rachel said.

"Right," Quinn said. "Obviously."

"Okay, so Brittany says we should probably go there in the afternoon to keep her company until her mom gets home from work, so she doesn't freak out."

"That makes sense."

"So will you be out of the lab by 3 o'clock?"

"Oh. I'm – I'm done there. Yeah, it was only an eight-week project, so. I'm done."

"Great. So I'll see you th—"

"Do you need a ride, Rachel?" Quinn was suddenly saying, to her own immeasurable horror. "You're on the way from my house to Santana's, so, I could . . . grab you on the way."

"_Grab you on the way?"_ What, Quinn?

"Thanks, Quinn, but I'll be coming from rehearsal in Findlay, so I think someone from there will probably drop me off. But I'll let you know if not."

"Okay, no problem. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Quinn."

"Bye," Quinn said as the call clicked away.

Rachel stared at her phone until the picture went dark in her hand. If the tension in Quinn's voice hadn't given it away, the offer to drive her around would have.

_Santana is right_, Rachel realized. _She wants me back._

**...  
><strong>

**Wednesday, June 22 / 10:15pm**

Santana was buzzed. She knew she was, because she didn't even care that her new leather boots were getting drenched in this fucking rainstorm. She would be pissed off tomorrow, but right now she leaned into Brittany, kicking up puddles as they made their way down the sidewalk toward Britt's house. Brittany reached around her hip and slid her hand into Santana's hip pocket, pulling her close.

"You're splashing me," Brittany said, digging her nails into Santana's hip.

"I like you wet," Santana said. She yanked the umbrella out of Brittany's hand and held it off to her left, letting Brittany get rained on.

In the ensuing struggle, beyond the rain and the giggles and the shouting, they didn't hear the bass booming from the stereo of the oncoming car.

That is, not until the guys inside started yelling out the windows. Most of it was garbled nonsense, a mix of two or maybe three voices. Brittany pulled her hand from Santana's pocket, and Santana stood up straight as the headlights of a rusty, beat up car swept over them.

It wasn't like either one of them was new to being catcalled. Usually, Santana welcomed it, for two reasons. One, she liked to be reminded of how hot she was. Two, it almost always gave her the opportunity to verbally bitch-slap some douchebag who was long overdue.

Nobody had ever catcalled them with, "HEY, GIRL ON GIRL!" before, though. Santana's ire went up as soon as her ear picked those words out of the rest of the bullshit they were yelling as they drove past.

Then the car stopped, and white lights beneath the tail lights lit up. Without a word, Santana and Brittany turned and started walking away.

"Heeeey ladies," a guy, somewhere in his early to mid-20's, leered from the passenger side window as the car pulled up beside them, a can of beer in his left hand. The car inched backwards to keep pace with Santana and Brittany as they walked. "Where y'all heading?"

Brittany stared straight ahead; Santana gave him her best "fuck off" glare.

"Whoa, what's that for?" he asked.

Santana's mind raced. She did not like this at all. What did they say to do in situations like this? Should they leave the sidewalk, cut through someone's yard?

"Imma talk to blondie, I think she's nicer," the guy slurred to his buddy in the driver's seat. "Hey blondie, this your girlfriend?"

"No," Brittany said.

"So were y'all just doing that touchin' and shit to get my attention? It was fuckin' hot, whatever it was."

"Go away," Brittany said.

"Well if she ain't your girlfriend, can I take her for a ride?" the guy asked, ignoring Brittany's command and laughing like he was the funniest fucking thing in the world.

"Why don't you go make nice with your right palm, Lurch?" Santana spat at him. "She said to go the fuck away."

The guy laughed and turned to his friend. "I think this one's the dude in the relationship, yo."

Santana's insides fell into her feet.

"I'm calling the cops if you don't leave right now," Brittany said, taking her phone from her pocket. "I can see your license plate."

"Yo, whatever," the guy said, but the driver applied the brakes. "You're lucky I don't shove that phone up your ass right now, bitch."

Santana and Brittany exchanged a look of relief as the car accelerated away. But as they turned to run down the sidewalk, there was a clang of metal against the sidewalk and a spray of cold liquid coated the backs of their legs.

"Fuckin' ugly DYKES!" the guy yelled out the window, at the top of his lungs.

**...  
><strong>

**Wednesday, June 29th / 10:35am**

"Why do you have to file your nails everywhere you go?" Quinn asked Santana as they waited for the kids to arrive in the library for story time.

Santana looked at Quinn witheringly. "Well, it's not like I can smoke in here. How else am I supposed to look nonchalant?"

Quinn didn't even bother to roll her eyes at Santana. They listened as the stampede of fifty tiny feet approaching in the hallway gave way to a hum of chatter which gave way to a hundred little conversations as the kids filed into the library from the cafeteria after morning snack.

As usually happened at this time of day, Cristofer made a beeline for Santana.

"Miss, Miss Santana! Hey, look what I got!" he said, sticking his arm straight out to show her what was in his hand.

Santana lifted her eyes from her nails and raised her eyebrows at Cristofer.

"So you finally got it, huh?"

"For my birthday," Cristofer beamed.

"So how did you fool your poor mom into thinking you were a good enough kid this year to get a new DS?"

"I didn't fool her - I am good!"

"Hmm, you could've fooled me. Well, mine's in my backpack," she said, indicating with a tilt of her head where it lay on the desk behind her. "You got Mario Kart, right?"

He nodded, narrowing his eyes at Santana.

"Mmmm," Santana smiled. "Then it's you and me, twelve-thirty, after lunch. And you're dead meat little man, the first time I get my hands on a turtle shell."

"Bring it on, Slow-pez," he said, his squeaky voice trying desperately to sound gruff.

"I'd go sit down and listen to your story if I were you," she said, casually picking up the attendance sheet that lay on the desk in front of her. "Because from here I could easily give you a paper cut on your accelerator thumb."

Cristofer grinned and ran to the center of the room, settling in next to his classmates. Santana smiled to herself, thinking of Brittany's little sister's Nintendo DS in her backpack. She returned her attention to her fingernails until the scuffle broke out.

"Hey, let me see that!" another boy said to Cristofer as he took a seat, and ripped the device from his hand.

"Hey! Give that back!" Cristofer protested, shoving the other boy and reaching for his new toy.

"Mason. . ." Quinn warned. "We don't take other people's things without their permission."

"I just want to see it," he grumbled, and switched it on.

"Give it BACK, fart breath," Cristofer said, drawing a round of giggles from the neighboring children.

Mason scrambled out of Cristofer's reach, but Cristofer leapfrogged two other students to pluck it out of his hands.

"Mason! Cristofer! Sit down!" Quinn scolded, to no avail. She looked desperately at Santana for backup, but Santana was smirking in amusement.

"I just wanted to SEE it, poop licker," Mason said, reaching across Cristofer's body to try to get it back.

"NO!" Cristofer shouted. "Get off of me, you dumb spic!"

Quinn's mouth fell open, and the smirk evaporated from Santana's face. She dropped her nail file to the floor with a clang.

"Wait, what did you just say, Cristofer?" she asked. A hush fell over the room as the kids picked up on the anger in Santana's voice.

Quinn gazed slowly from Santana to Cristofer, who had frozen in place.

"Be nice, Santana," she warned quietly. "He doesn't know."

"Yeah, well," Santana said, standing up and striding to the middle of the room to take Cristofer by the arm. "That's a problem."

She ushered Cristofer into the hallway, leaving Quinn to refocus the class on the book they were supposed to be reading.

In the empty hallway, Santana knelt in front of Cristofer. He stared at the floor.

"Cristofer, look at me," Santana said firmly. "I'm not mad at you, okay?"

"He started it," Cristofer began to defend himself anyway. "He took my DS!"

"You're not in trouble, all right? Just can it."

Cristofer stopped talking and looked at her, clearly puzzled.

"Cristofer, I want to know where you heard that word. That name you called that kid just now. Not. . . you know, fart breath. The other one."

Cristofer stared, reluctant to answer her.

"On the school bus," he said, finally accepting that a confession was inevitable.

"Did someone call you that?" Santana asked.

"No, but a kid on the bus – he calls my brother it."

"Cristofer, do you know what that word means?"

He shook his head.

"It's a mean name. It's a mean name for people like you and me," she said, touching his belly with her index finger. "Entiendes?"

The puzzlement in his eyes cleared a little. "Si."

"So, you can't say that word, Cristofer. And you need to tell a grownup if anyone says it to you or your brother or anyone, ever again. You have to tell your bus driver, or your teacher, or something."

"I didn't know what it meant," Cristofer said, tears welling up in his eyes.

"I know," Santana said, and hugged him. "But now you know. And you better not let anyone be mean to you for being like me, cause we both know I'm awesome, right?"

"Si."

"I knew you'd admit it," Santana said, pulling back from the hug and holding up her palm. Cristofer smacked it in a high five.

"Hey, as long as we're out here skipping Miss Quinn's lame story, you wanna go see if they have any leftover donuts in the cafeteria?" Santana asked. "I think I want sprinkles."

Cristofer's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Can we race?"

"No way, Jose, you know the rules," she said standing up. "But you walk nicely, and I might let you have a bite before I eat them all."

**...  
><strong>

**Thursday, August 18 / 5:22pm**

Santana refused to sit down. For a while, she stood at the picture window in the living room. Then she paced between the couch and dining room table. For a minute she came to rest with her back against the kitchen doorframe, but when she tired of that, she went back to the window.

Brittany followed Santana's position in the room at a safe distance. Because Santana also refused to say anything that wasn't outrageously mean, even for her.

"What the hell are you wearing, Quinn?" she asked out of nowhere. "That outfit looks like something you'd see on an elderly Amish woman with cataracts."

Quinn held her tongue on Brittany's pleading stare.

"What are you laughing at, you Israeli house elf?"

"Nothing," Rachel said, switching off her smile. "So when does your mother get here, again?"

"Any minute now," Brittany answered, as Santana swallowed hard.

As if on cue, they heard a car door slam.

"Group hug, everyone!" Rachel chirped, and leaned in to Santana with outstretched arms. Quinn followed tentatively behind.

"I will rip the light bulb out of that lamp, bust it, and slit your throats if you touch me right now."

They backed off, believing her entirely.

"I love you, Santana," Brittany said simply. Santana glanced over her shoulder and met Brittany's eyes before continuing into the kitchen, where her mother was just opening the door.

In the living room, Quinn, Rachel, and Brittany sat down and waited. Rachel held Brittany's damp, cold hand.

"Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?" Santana said tentatively.

"Is this about school?" her mother asked wearily, setting her purse on the table and emptying the contents of her grocery bags onto the kitchen counter.

"It's summer, Mama."

"I mean college."

"No."

"Why do you look ill, Santana Claus?"

"I have to tell you something. Can you, like, stop moving for a minute?"

Her mother turned toward her and put her hands on her hips.

"Are you pregnant?"

"No," Santana almost laughed. "Kind of the opposite," she muttered.

"Speak up, cacahuete, I can't hear you."

Santana sighed impatiently. This wasn't the vibe she wanted at all.

"Okay, can we go sit down?"

Santana's mother turned on her heel and walked toward the door leading to the back porch. She opened it wordlessly and held it for Santana.

In the living room, Rachel, Quinn, and Brittany exchanged a look, rose to their feet, and wordlessly tiptoed into the kitchen.

Santana and her mother sat down, Santana on a wicker bench, her mother on the porch swing.

"What do you have to say, baby? You're scaring your mother after a long day at work."

Santana sat up straight, her hands perched on her knees. She stared at the rug in front of her and took a few deep breaths, giving herself a moment to focus only on not throwing up.

"Is this about what happened Sunday night?" her mother prompted.

Santana nodded. "Yeah, actually. Okay. Okay, so mom? You know how I've been best friends with Brittany for a long time? Since we were little?"

"Is she pregnant?"

"No, Mama, no one's pregnant. And you know how we might go to college together next year?"

"For cheerleading."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's one reason. But there's another reason that I haven't told you about why we want to do that. About, why I'm always with her, and why I've barely been around here this summer."

Santana blinked, and unwelcome tears dropped from her cheeks to her lap.

"Mama, I love her. She's not my friend anymore, she's my girlfriend."

Santana drew in a ragged breath, and time stopped as she watched the expression on her mother's face turn from ambivalent concern to something entirely unreadable.

Her mother looked from Santana's face to the back yard and back to Santana's face.

"How long have you been keeping this from me?" she asked quietly.

"Um," Santana said, dabbing her left eye with her knuckle. "A few months. I mean, I wasn't sure until this year."

Her mother held Santana's gaze, and shook her head slowly side to side.

"I'm disappointed in this girl sitting here, Santana Luisa. This is not who I raised you to be."

And there it was – exactly what she had feared. Brittany was wrong, Santana had been right, and she wanted to die. She didn't know whether to defend herself and try to explain, to deny it and take it all back, or to get up and leave, to run to Brittany's arms.

Santana opened her mouth to speak, although she wasn't entirely sure what was about to come out. Her mother spoke first.

"This timid, scared girl sitting beside me is not who I taught you to be."

All the words Santana had been considering saying were stopped cold, like they ran into a concrete wall.

"What?" she squeaked.

"I taught you to be proud, no?" her mother said. "I taught you pride and how to give anyone hell who didn't like it, did I not?"

"I, uhh -," Santana stammered. "No, but, I am proud, Mama. I'm proud to be a woman and I'm proud of my family heritage. None of that is any different. I just - some parts I'm still working on being proud of, I guess."

"Listen to me, cacahuete," her mother said, leaning forward and extending her index finger toward Santana. "Nobody who loves you is going to take that away from you. You know better than that. And people who don't know you, they will not respect you if you don't walk around like they better. This world will not hand you respect."

Santana wiped the fresh round of tears from her cheeks. "Yeah, I – I know."

"And if what you are telling me is true, you're gonna need to be tough, baby. And I don't mean mean, I mean tough. There's a difference," she said, eyeing her daughter knowingly.

"Okay. I know," Santana nodded.

Her mother looked at her thoughtfully. "So you've been sleeping there all the time? In Brittany's room?"

"Umm . . ."

"You're too young for that, chiquitita. You are seventeen, that's too serious! You start coming home at night. And now I know where you are, too, and I will send your father to come find you."

"All right," Santana said humbly. Well, that sucked, but somehow this didn't seem like the moment to complain.

"Okay. Now get out of here. I need my mama time."

And that was it – it was over. And Santana couldn't feel her legs. She somehow managed to stand, but could do little more than wobble to the back porch door, through the kitchen and back to her friends, who had preceded her back into the living room by approximately 1.5 seconds.

Outside on the porch, Mrs. Lopez watched her daughter depart and then took her phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed.

"Gail, it's Alicia," she said, by way of a greeting. "How long have you known about this?"

...

Santana emerged from the kitchen with tears streaming down her face, and fell into Brittany's waiting arms.

"Is it okay?" Brittany asked.

"It's okay," Santana nodded into her shoulder.

"I'm so proud of you," Rachel said, tears welling up in her eyes, too.

Santana let go of Brittany and transferred her hug to Rachel, then to Quinn.

"Thank you guys for coming."

"Of course," Quinn said as they let go of one another.

"I would offer to tell you how it went, but I know you were all eavesdropping from the kitchen the whole freaking time," Santana sniffed.

Rachel and Quinn looked at one another sheepishly, confirming Santana's accusation.

"What's 'cacahuete' mean?" Rachel asked.

"It means none of your business."

"It means 'peanut' in Spanish," Brittany spilled.

"Oh my god, that is adorable," Rachel said, bringing her hands to her mouth.

"Fuck you all," Santana said, still wiping at her eyes.

"Okay, we'll get out of your hair," Rachel said. "I'm sure you two want to be alone to talk."

"Thanks again," Santana said. "Sorry I was such a bitch," she added with a touch of sheepishness.

"When," Quinn asked. "This afternoon or for the last five years?"

Quinn and Rachel loitered in Santana's driveway in the breezy evening sunshine.

"I think it meant a lot to her that you came," Rachel said.

Quinn nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I'm glad I did. She looks really happy."

"So how much did your heart drop into your stomach when she said 'it wasn't how she raised her'?"

"I thought I was going to either cry or pee my pants, maybe both," Quinn admitted.

"Well, I guess it can turn out okay," Rachel said quietly.

"I guess. For some people."

"You know, Quinn, I don't really feel like walking home. Do you think I could get a ride?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "All right."

**...  
><strong>

**Saturday, August 20 / 6:04pm**

Quinn stood by the kitchen table, rifling through the mail. She separated the bills from the junk mail and tucked the edges into two neat piles. Eyeing Judy from behind her sunglasses, she discreetly slid her hand into her messenger bag at her side. She pulled out a sheet of stickers and tossed it onto the table next to the mail.

"What's for dinner, mom?" she called out.

Judy emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "I made a casserole," she said, smiling. "It'll be ready in half an hour."

Quinn nodded and sat down, waiting.

"Did we get anything interesting in the mail?"

Quinn shook her head. "Just bills, really."

"Oh," Judy said absently. "Sweetie, what's this? Why do we have rainbow flag stickers on our dinner table?"

"Oh," Quinn said, feigning nonchalance. "I got them from Brittany. She and Santana got them at the Pride Parade a couple of months ago."

It was a lie, of course. She had gotten them from Rachel's nightstand back in June.

"But, why do you have them?" Judy asked carefully.

"I thought they were cute," Quinn shrugged. "And I support my friends."

Judy held Quinn's gaze for a moment, and Quinn held her breath.

"Well, put them away, please," Judy said, turning her back and heading back into the kitchen. "I'll need to set the table in a minute."

"Should I put away the mail, too?" Quinn called after her. She didn't get an answer.

Quinn smirked at Judy's receding figure. Well, there you have it. She slapped her hand onto the table and slid the stickers off the edge and back into her messenger bag.

**...  
><strong>

**Wednesday, August 24 / 11:47am**

Quinn was wiping down the tables in the arts and crafts area after a lively session of macaroni gluing when she first heard the sound.

"Pssssst."

She turned and looked over her shoulder both ways, but saw no one. It must be one of the kids messing around, although it was strange that one of them would miss lunch just to pointlessly annoy her.

Then she heard it again.

"PSSSST!"

It was louder this time.

She stood up, threw the washcloth down on the table, and put her hands on her hips.

"Who is that?" she whispered.

No answer. She sighed and rolled her eyes, and returned to cleaning the table. It was probably that little shit Cristofer. Quinn knew he had to be trouble the moment Santana befriended him.

"PPPSSSSSTTTT!" she heard a final time. "Fabray, you asshole, over here!"

Quinn turned around to see Santana gesturing at her from the door to the ladies' restroom about twenty feet away.

Curiosity won out over annoyance. Quinn headed for the ladies room.

"Could you be less obvious, please?" Santana hissed. "Don't let anyone see you."

Santana held her index finger to her lips, and, once Quinn was inside, slid the wooden doorstop beneath the door so no one could open it from the outside.

"What the hell are you doing, Santana?" Quinn asked wearily, not actually expecting any sort of satisfactory answer.

"I need to talk to you," Santana said. "You have to do me a favor."

"I have to do you a secret favor?" Quinn clarified.

"That's right."

"I'm not interested," Quinn said, starting for the door.

Santana put her toe against the doorstop, holding it in place.

"You are certifiable," Quinn said matter-of-factly. "Okay fine, if it'll get me out of here – what's the favor?"

"Okay, here's the deal. I need you to follow Brittany and Rollerpants when they hang out on Friday night. But listen, you're gonna need to be a hell of a lot sneakier than you were with me just now, because he's hobbled but not deaf, all right?"

Quinn was already tired of this conversation. "Are you kidding me, Santana?" she asked. "You're asking me to spy on your girlfriend?"

"And her ex-boyfriend," Santana corrected her.

"But. . . why me?"

"Because this is your fault. You put this idea of closure in her head. Then one afternoon of talking to him turns into another, and before I know it she's asking me if I mind if they go to the arcade on Friday night."

"Okay, first of all, I didn't put that idea in her head, Santana. I gave her a word for the idea she already had. Second of all, if it bothers you so much, why don't you just say no?"

"Because I'm trying not to be a jealous bitch."

"And, you're doing that by sending someone . . .to spy on her?"

"Okay, look," Santana said, her shoulders slumping and the bravado draining out of her voice, "I can't say no. Okay? She's been amazing the past few weeks, with like, my mom and at tryouts and everything. She deserves for me to trust her."

"So then why not just trust her?"

"I do trust her!" Santana said. "That's the thing, I do. And I want her to have the bull shit she wants, like his friendship or whatever. I mean, just because I think it's disgusting doesn't mean it doesn't make her happy. But it's making me fucking crazy, you know? Like the better it gets with her, the worse it would be if I let it get fucked up. I just need you to follow them once, and make sure it's innocent, so I can stop climbing the fucking walls, all right? So why don't you do a good deed for once, to make up for fucking up everybody's summer?"

"Santana," Quinn said, a little more gently this time, "This is between you and Brittany. The last thing I need is to get involved in someone else's relationship drama."

"Oh, so you mean like how I totally didn't have to be involved in yours and Rachel's?"

Quinn chewed her bottom lip.

This request was a little fucked up, but it was possible that she owed Santana a favor.

"Fine," she sighed.

Santana smiled victoriously.

"His dad is picking her up at eight. You best be at the arcade by 8:15, you got that?"


	10. Chapter 10

**Thursday, August 11 / 9:04pm**

Quinn startled awake as a hand jostled her shoulder.

"Miss Fabray," a voice said softly.

She lifted her head, and winced. She had managed to give herself a serious kink in the left side of her neck.

"Crap," she whispered, noting the small splotch of drool on the page of the text book she'd fallen asleep on. She brushed her hand across it discreetly.

"I did it again, didn't I?" she asked sheepishly, squinting up at the library assistant who'd just woken her.

"Afraid so," he said. "We closed five minutes ago. You're lucky, we probably would have locked you in if I hadn't remembered I never saw you leave."

"Thanks, Brian," Quinn said, stifling a yawn. "Guess it's a bad sign if I'm putting myself to sleep with my own writing."

"Do you need help, Miss Fabray?" Brian asked as Quinn struggled to shoulder her guitar and guide as many of her books as possible into her backpack. "Let me help you get all of this stuff into your car."

She smiled at him. He was like a slightly older, nerdier Finn, tall with light brown hair and dimples. "You can call me Quinn, you know. And thanks, but I'm okay," she said. "It's my own fault for being too paranoid to leave anything in the car."

"Maybe next time," he said hopefully, tagging along as she lugged her things toward the exit.

Quinn sighed inwardly. She was going to be spending a lot more time at this library in the next few weeks. This couldn't go on.

"Brian, I think I need to let you off the hook," she said. "I'm sort of. . . not really available."

"Oh. No, no worries," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "I mean, sucks for me, but. I guess I just figured since you drive yourself and no one ever helps you carry your books or your guitar. . ."

Quinn shrugged at him as he trailed off.

"I guess it's not my place, but whoever he is, he should help you carry your books."

"I'll see you next week, Brian."

"See you, Quinn."

He waved to her while she pushed her way through the revolving exit door.

_Oh, Brian_, she thought, _there a lot more ways to be unavailable than already having a boyfriend._

**...  
><strong>

**Friday, August 12 / 8:10pm**

As usual, Brittany and Santana's SAT math tutoring session had degenerated. The two of them plus Quinn sprawled on Santana's bedroom floor, the air filled with pungent smoke.

This hadn't started out as a disaster for productivity; on the contrary, after the first few puffs it seemed to have actually helped with the lesson, as Quinn came up with all kinds of creative ideas for explaining math concepts and Santana and Brittany found them remarkably engaging. It was a short-lived effect, though; about an hour after the little plastic bag came out, nobody was thinking about math at all.

"Do you guys want to watch a movie?" Santana asked, lying on her back, tracing invisible patterns in the air with her index finger. "I found this list of movies on the internet that are supposed to be awesome when you're baked."

"Aren't they all porn?" Brittany giggled, sitting cross-legged against Santana's bedroom door. "I don't think Quinn would like that."

"They're not ALL porn," Santana said, offended. "That was a different list."

"Yeah, I'll pass on both," Quinn decided, sliding her thick paperback SAT manual under her head for a pillow. "I do not need to know what's in you guys's porn collection."

"See now, that is your loss," Santana informed Quinn. "You're missing out on some genuine entertainment."

"What, random people having sex? Not hot."

"First of all, how would you know? Second of all, I didn't say anything about hot. Sometimes it's hilarious."

"Hilarious?" Quinn repeated. "That's not the point, is it?"

"No, that's why it's funny," Brittany said.

"Everything's fake, especially the orgasms."

"And the boobs," Brittany said. "But not in a good way like Santana's," she added quickly.

"Oh yeah, that's like some double N shit they have going on. I like tits and everything, but not if they're bigger than the chick's head."

"I think C is the best size," Brittany said. "I like how they fit right in your hands and squish out between your fingers." She held up her hands in a demonstration, smiling at Santana.

"See, don't get me wrong, I appreciate that, Britt, but it all depends on the girl. Like, take Q, for example. Hers are maybe the size of golf balls, but they work for her."

"Can we not?" Quinn said, exhaling a cloud toward the ceiling. The talk about porn got a pass since she was high, but her tits were not up for discussion.

"So what kind of boobs do you like, Quinn? Santana and I told you ours." Brittany inquired, ignoring Quinn's plea to move on.

"I don't care about boobs."

"Yeah, right," Santana scoffed. "You're totally thinking about Berry's right now."

"No, I'm not. I really don't care."

"So you're more of an ass woman, then? I mean, I get it. Rachel will do that to a girl."

"Stop," Quinn said. "I don't care about. . . posteriors, either."

"Legs?" Brittany asked.

"Okay, let me make this simpler. I'm not interested in women's disembodied parts."

Brittany and Santana exchanged a skeptical glance.

"What? I've told you, I don't objectify people," Quinn insisted. "I'm attracted to personalities."

Santana side-eyed Quinn. "So you like Berry for her. . . personality?"

Quinn looked at Santana witheringly. "If you're asking did I like the way she looked, yes. That doesn't mean I want to talk about abstract breasts."

"Quinn, you're missing out on one of the best things about being in a queer relationship, other than getting to touch girls," Brittany said. "Getting to think people are hot together. Couples that are two straight people totally miss out."

"Totally," Santana agreed. "Trust me, Q. You'd be amazed what happens if you google image Shannon Elizabeth or Olivia Wilde with Rachel."

"I don't understand why we're talking about this. It's moot now."

"You know what? I can't," Santana said, standing. "I can't accept this. I'm getting my laptop."

...

Half an hour later, she snapped it shut in disbelief, and fell backwards onto the floor.

"Not even Angelina Jolie?"

Quinn stared at Santana, stone-faced.

"Not even BEYONCE? No, I can't believe it. You're a fucking liar."

She flung her arms out to the sides in exasperation.

"Wait!" she said, sitting up suddenly. "Do they have to be Jewish? Britt, find me Natalie Portman."

"Why can't you just accept that I don't care about body parts or half-naked women I don't know?"

"Because I know you, Fabray, and you're just as shallow as the rest of us. This isn't over. Next time I get my hands on Mr. Jose Cuervo, I will get you to admit you like tits. It's happening before this summer is over."

"Good luck with that," Quinn said dismissively. "I don't know what you expect from a repressed Christian girl."

"That's not a good excuse, Quinn," Brittany said, lying on her side next to Santana, playing with her hair. "You don't even care that much about religion."

Quinn and Santana both turned their heads to look at Brittany.

"Excuse me?" Quinn asked.

"What? You say that being a good Christian is really important and stuff, but you love Rachel and she's Jewish."

Quinn tried to engage her pot-addled brain. She was just missing the joke – this couldn't be for real, could it?

Then again, it was Brittany plus drugs.

"Sooo.. . you're saying if I were a real Christian I wouldn't date anybody outside of my religion?"

"I'm not saying I think you would hate all the other religions and stuff, but you don't seem to care that much when it comes to people you have feelings for, like Puck and Rachel."

"I think both of those relationships had more pressing problems to worry about, Brittany."

"But then also, Rachel told me that Ms. Corcoran, Beth's mom, is half Jewish and she goes to temple instead of church."

"So?"

"So you gave your baby to a Jew."

"Beth's father is Jewish, Brittany. It makes perfect sense."

"But then, didn't you give your baby to someone who won't teach her to love Jesus?"

"Britt," Santana hissed. "What are you doing? She's gonna flip her shit right now."

"I'm just trying to say that Quinn didn't worry about it when she had to find her baby a mom."

Quinn's cheeks flushed with anger. "What's your point, Brittany?"

"My point is, why didn't you care about it?"

"I. . ." Quinn was flabbergasted. "Maybe, Brittany, I cared about her being safe and happy more than I cared whether she went to the same church as me. That doesn't make me a hypocrite, it makes me a good mother."

"It does, though," Brittany said. "Just not because of that."

"Well then, please, enlighten me."

"Because, why can you decide that it's more important for Beth to be happy than to be a good Christian, but you won't decide it for yourself?"

The grin that had slowly been spreading across Santana's face practically reached her ears as Brittany finally got to her point.

Quinn started about seventeen different rebuttals in her head, but none came out of her mouth.

"Okay, anyway guys, I have to go," Brittany said when it became clear the argument was over. "Lord Tubbington is expecting me by 10. He worries if I'm late." She turned to Santana and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I love you. Bye, Quinn."

Quinn waved absently after Brittany was already gone.

"What the hell just happened?" she said, turning to Santana.

"I think what just happened," Santana said, "Is that my Britts just owned your Jesus-freaky ass."

"Well, she doesn't know what she's talking about. It's not like religion wasn't a factor. Beth will grow up knowing the same God I do, and that's what's important."

"Why don't you calm the fuck down so we can go back to talking about tits?"

"Beth will still have a religious community around her; that's what I care about."

"Really, she's gone, this is over now."

"Did you know that human beings have had religions even longer than we've had languages? I bet Brittany doesn't know that, but it's true. Anthropologists think it helped make civilization possible. And they think spirituality is as important to humans as any other psychological need. As long as Beth has that, I'm happy."

"Ummm, first of all, I'm not a gigantic NERD, so no, I didn't know that. And I don't know what this has to do with not being able to appreciate girls who are hot or naked or both."

"Because in _my_ religion, lust is a sin. And so is being a lesbian."

"I'm so super tired of hearing about this."

Santana reopened her laptop and resumed clicking through pictures on the internet, still determined to draw a lustful confession from Quinn before the evening was over.

Quinn took another long puff on the joint, finishing it. She held it in till her lungs burned. Sullen, she left Santana's side on the floor and flounced down on the bed, cursing herself for all the things she was only now thinking of to rebut what Brittany had said.

Everything was just so damn simple in Brittany's mind. Of course Quinn_ wanted_ Beth to know Jesus. But she had made a conscious decision to prioritize giving her a good home first. It wasn't that she hadn't thought about it, or factored it in. Right?

This was giving her a headache.

"What are you doing?" she asked Santana, who seemed to be more and more engrossed in her computer screen.

"YouTube videos."

"Oh God. I'm leaving."

"Oh my God, you don't watch THAT kind of video on YouTube. And like I'd watch porn with you here, you virgin. I'm looking at cheerleading videos to find moves I can jack for my tryouts routine."

"How ethical of you."

"Um, I'm out to knock their fucking balls off, all right? I need inspiration. I want my shit to be the most challenging thing anyone has ever done for this squad."

"For Toledo?" Quinn shook her head. "That's the wrong approach."

"Um, the fuck it is."

"I'm serious. This isn't Sue's squad, Santana. For a school like that, don't you think you want to be well-rounded rather than do a bunch of stuff that's so technically challenging you'll never actually use it on their squad?"

Santana paused. Fuck, what if she was right?

"What do you mean by well-rounded?" she asked.

"Being skilled is one thing, but what about strength, flexibility, I don't know . . . your sense of choreography? And you probably want to show actual cheerfulness and team spirit, too, so I guess you're probably screwed."

"I hate you."

"Because I'm right? Come on, let's go outside; show me what you have worked out so far."

"You want me to tumble in the grass, high? Your death threats be more subtle these days, I'll give you that."

"Whatever, skip the gynmastics; that's not what you need to work on. And get over yourself," Quinn added, when Santana stared skeptically. "There's a reason I was head cheerleader when I was a sophomore. Do you want my help or not?"

...

Two hours later, they lay on their backs in the grass in Santana's back yard. Santana's muscles felt like jello. Quinn, confident that the darkness hid her face, smiled, her own cheeks flushed with effort.

"So you think that'll do it?" Santana said, a little breathless.

"Yeah. I do."

"Maybe you should watch Britt's routine so far, too."

"Brittany's dancing will carry her through. But I'll watch if you want."

They fell silent, kept company in the late night air by the chirp of the crickets and the hum of mosquitoes.

"So, what are you doing?" Santana asked.

"Doing?" Quinn repeated.

"For college."

"Oh. Ohio State, I guess. With my test scores and my summer internship there I'm a shoo-in for their bio program."

"I still can't believe you like that mouse brain shit."

"I'm good at formulating research questions."

"Being good at something ain't the same as liking it."

"I like it just fine. And it's the road to pre-med. Anyway, why - do you have a better idea for my future than I do? I'm all ears."

Santana didn't answer right away, and Quinn heard the grass next to her rustle as the other girl shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't know, like. . . what about Toledo?"

It took a few seconds of silence after Santana's reply before Quinn understood it was a genuine sentiment and not the set up for an insult.

And when she realized it, she hated herself, because her first inclination was to reply with something acerbic, as if automatically she searched for something that would drown out the vulnerability of the moment.

Quinn closed her eyes tightly. _Do_ _not be an asshole, Fabray. _

"Well, I hadn't considered it," she said, finally. "But I guess one crappy school in Ohio is as good as any other, right?"

"For reals," Santana said, and Quinn could hear the exhale of relief in her words. "You know, they have gay guys there. They must have lesbians, too. I mean, odds are, right?"

"I'm sure they do have lesbians, yeah." And then Quinn was laughing. Oh God – between the pot, and the darkness, the physical exhaustion, and Santana being actually sort of amusing – she might be getting a little loopy.

"Leeesssssbiiiiiaaannnns," she drawled, enunciating each syllable for seconds at a time.

Santana, observing these shenanigans, decided that this must be it – it had been a long time coming, but Quinn had finally fucking lost it.

"Q?" she said expectantly.

"I hate that word," Quinn said, a trace of laughter still in her voice.

"Well," Santana said, "You don't have to say it like THAT."

"I don't like it the normal way, either. Guess that sucks for me."

"Because. . .?"

"It's hard to tell people you're a lesbian when you don't want to say the word lesbian."

Santana was silent for a moment, begrudgingly admiring Quinn's uncanny ability to admit things without actually saying them.

"So, are you?" she hedged.

Quinn stared up at the starry sky. _One, two, three. _

"Yeah."

Santana rolled onto her side, facing Quinn.

"Admit you like tits."

"Santana!" Quinn exclaimed, covering her face with her hands. "NO."

"Damn it, Fabray!"

"No, just shut up, all right? Shut up, I have to ask you something."

"About tits?"

"No, please stop saying 'tits.'"

"Then what?"

"I need to know if you have another plan."

"Bitch, I got tons of plans. What are we talking about?"

"A plan like last time. For getting Rachel and me back together. Is it happening right now? Is Rachel going to show up any minute?"

Santana sat up and pulled her knees up to her chest. "Oh, fuck me," she murmured. She sighed heavily. "No, Quinn, there's no plan. There's no way I'm getting in the middle of that shit again."

Quinn sat up next to Santana.

"Well, I hope you're lying, because I have no idea what to do. Although maybe that's fine, since I don't deserve to have her back, anyway."

"You did put her through hell, for sure."

"Yeah."

"No, I don't mean what you think I mean. I mean before you broke her heart. If you do ever manage to get her to take your sorry ass back, you might try not being such a raging bitch to her all the time."

"That's rich, coming from you."

"I'm serious. After the first couple of weeks, it was like BAM, honeymoon's over. You went back to being mean to her all the time."

"I was dealing with a lot. She knew how I felt."

"Are you sure? I'm not."

"Why," Quinn said, tension creeping into her voice. "What did she say to you?"

"Nothing. She didn't say anything."

"Then what are you getting at?"

"Nothing."

"Santana."

"All right, but remember, you asked. So you remember that night in the woods – the fourth of July? You know that the way Rachel, like . . . was? You know that had nothing to do with me, right?"

"Yeah, you were right, I don't want to talk about this."

"Tough crap, because you need to hear this. And I might add, it's not exactly a fucking picnic for me to talk about either. But Berry doesn't sound like that during the proceedings, okay? I would know."

"I really, really don't want to talk about this."

"She always sounded good, don't get me wrong. That mouth is super hot when she's not bossing people around with it. But okay, you remember earlier when Britts and I told you how everything in porn is fake? Those porn star moans and groans Rachel was making – that shit was fake, too."

Quinn stared at the grass in front of her toes, digesting this information.

"I don't believe you. Why would she do that?"

"My guess? She was trying to get a reaction out of you."

"She thought I was bored? Or. . . boring?"

"No. Look, okay, I know there must have been something going on horizontally that kept you two interested. But if you want to keep Berry, this whole act where you're too into Jesus to have at least as much interest in sex as like, a brick? It's gonna have to go."

Quinn was officially tired of getting advice for the evening.

"This is all a ploy to get me to talk about tits, isn't it?" she said.

"I really think it would help."

Quinn smirked. "Okay, I'm going home, Santana. I think the mosquitoes are getting me."

"No, fuck you, okay? I promise not to say tits any more, just crash here. I still want to watch a movie."

"Not boobs, either."

"What good is a movie without boobs?"

"I mean you can't say that word."

"If I'm looking at them I don't need to say it."

"Anything to shut you up."

"That trick never fucking fails to work on you, just so you know."

...

**Wednesday, August 10 / 10:12am**

Quinn flattened a blob of green Play-Doh into a pancake beneath the heel of her hand. She turned her wrist over so she could examine her palm.

"Look, Dottie," she said, holding it up for the little girl to see. "I look like The Wicked Witch of the West, don't I?"

Dottie's eyes widened. She turned her own hands over to see her palms tinted a little blue.

"Who do I look like?" she asked Quinn, holding them up.

"Umm…" Quinn contemplated. "Cookie monster?"

"I think so," Dottie giggled.

Then she was suddenly out of her chair and at Quinn's side.

"No, you hafta –" she started, nudging Quinn's hands away from the table. "You hafta roll it like this."

She picked up the front edge of Quinn's green pancake and rolled it toward the back of the table into a lopsided tube.

"Now you can make a worm."

"Ohh, okay," Quinn said, bemused. "I didn't know I had to make a worm."

"Everybody has to make a worm."

"All right. You're the Play-Doh expert."

"Yeah," Dottie agreed.

Quinn obediently rolled her blob of Play-Doh into a long, skinny green worm.

Me and Dottie are glad you came back, Quinn," Brittany said, rolling her own yellow blob into a matching worm. "Right, Dottie?"

Dottie nodded, not looking up from her creation.

"Well, I'm just about finished in the lab, and I missed you guys. So, here I am."

"It's not because you wanted to keep an eye on Rachel and Thomas, right?" Brittany asked with a smile.

Quinn pursed her lips.

"It's okay, Quinn," Brittany said. "So is everyone done with their worms?" she asked, directing her attention to the table of kids. She took her worm by one end and held it up in the air. Soon the table was ringed by a dozen dangling strings of Play-Doh. Quinn picked up her green worm and held it up.

"Good thing you helped me make this, Dottie," she whispered. "Or I'd be left out!"

Dottie nodded.

"Look, Jonas made a pink one!" one of the boys at the table cackled with delight, pointing. "Jonas, you're so gay!"

Most of the kids at the table tittered as Jonas quickly set down his worm.

"That's a stupid way to insult someone," Brittany said.

"No it isn't," the boy said defensively. "He used pink."

"Yes it is. It's not even an insult. Being gay isn't bad. If you called me gay, I wouldn't care."

"Are you gay?" the kid asked, a wide grin on his face.

"What if I was?" Brittany shrugged. "I'd still be your favorite kickball coach and be your favorite singer in the music corner, right?"

The boy said nothing, but his grin faded.

"So if I wanted to make fun of you, I'd tell you your worm looked like poop because you made it out of brown Play-Doh, but I wouldn't call you gay. That would just make me sound mean. And we're not supposed to be mean, or judge other people, right?"

"I'm not mean."

"So then you don't care if people are gay?"

"No."

"Good. Me either. And you guys either, right?"

"Right," several of the kids chimed in.

"Yeah, me either," Dottie said, already busying herself on her next worm.

...

"That was really cool how you handled that 'gay' thing earlier," Quinn said to Brittany as they drove home together. "You're really good with them. All I could do was cringe."

"I think they don't even think about what they're saying. By the time we have kids – or, more kids – they won't care at all who's gay. Most of them already don't, they just repeat stuff because the older kids say it."

"I've kind of realized lately that in the grand scheme of things, we're pretty lucky," Quinn thought aloud. "If you look at the way gay people have been treated through history, it's hard not to be grateful that our government and religious leaders for the most part aren't trying to hunt us down and kill us. There's progress."

"Totally," Brittany said enthusiastically. "Like, think about how when our grandparents were our age people from different races couldn't get married. Now nobody even notices that Santana and me are different colors, just that we're girls. I think talking to the kids honestly like that is one of the things that helps make it better."

"I hope so," Quinn said absently. It _was_ really something that a bunch of Christian little kids had just been so eager to proclaim they weren't mean to gay people. Quinn tried to imagine that happening at her church when she was little, and couldn't.

"So, since we're talking about gay stuff, have you thought about telling your mom?" Brittany asked. "I think Santana's going to do it."

"Are you serious?" Quinn said, taking her eyes off the road for so long to stare at Brittany that she dipped into the gravel at the side of the road. "When?"

"I don't know. We've talked about it all summer. She'll do it whenever she's ready, but I think it'll probably be pretty soon."

"No," Quinn said. "I'm not telling my mother."

"Are you sure, Quinn? Because, I told my mom and I feel so much better."

"But that's different. Your mom already knew."

"I know, but – _I_ hadn't told her. Sometimes it helps just to say it to one person, even if they already know."

"I appreciate that, Brittany. But I'm not ready to tell anyone yet."

Brittany nodded. "That's okay, Quinn," she said, smiling a little. "At least now you told yourself, right?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "Right."

**...**

**Monday, August 22 / 8:40pm**

Santana's mother joined her on the couch, uninvited.

"I brought popcorn," she said, shoving the bowl toward Santana.

"Thanks," Santana said hesitantly. She was stuck at home on direct orders from her parents, and she wasn't feeling particularly like socializing with either of them. It was as good as being grounded, and sadly, she hadn't even done anything worth punishing.

"So, how was your big weekend in Toledo?"

Thinking about that did make Santana smile, though.

"Fun, for the most part. My tryout routine kicked ass – I nailed that back tuck I was nervous about. Brittany and I met these super nice girls who are already on the squad, and a couple of the guys are in the a capella group."

"Did you find out about the business program?"

"I was there for cheerleading tryouts, Mama."

"I'm sure there was time you could have asked questions about the school, too. Did you ask about the student-faculty ratio?"

". . .Like I said, I mostly just hung out with the team."

"Ayy," her mother sighed. "I wish you would take college seriously. You're letting Brittany make this decision for you."

Santana put down her handful of popcorn. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, don't look so mad. Tell me, how much did you know about this school before Brittany decided to go there, huh? And now you've been twice and you still don't know anything about it."

"Wow," Santana said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, I thought you were cool with Brittany and me, and everything. Now the truth comes out. You don't want me going to school with her."

"My concerns have nothing to do with Brittany being a girl, baby. I would feel the same way if you were following a boy to college."

"I'm not 'following' anyone anywhere," Santana said coldly. "I _liked_ Toledo."

"I'm sure there are a hundred schools you could like, munchkin. Look, your mama was so happy when you went to see USC, and it makes me sad that you had wanted to get out and see other parts of the world, but now a high school romance is holding you back."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Mom."

Santana's mother smiled and took Santana's hand.

"Brittany is a wonderful, beautiful girl, baby. But does she understand you? Does she know what it's like to grow up to be a Latina woman? I don't think so. California would be so good for you, because it would let you meet people with a common background."

"So, what you're saying is that you want me to go to California so I can meet a Hispanic girl."

"That is not what I'm saying to you, don't twist my words. I'm saying being around a culture that is more diverse would be good for you. It's good for everybody!"

"Yeah, well maybe you and Dad should have thought of that before you moved to Lima, Ohio to raise your daughter. Then I never would have met Brittany - all your problems would be solved."

"You're not being fair - we did think about diversity. You know for Ohio, Lima is pretty good! But we raised you to push yourself, and we thought that you had the whole world in front of you. Now you only want to go as far as Toledo."

"Can you leave me alone now?" Santana said, pushing the bowl of popcorn back into her mother's lap.

Santana's mother smiled sadly.

"Yes, ma'am. But tomorrow or the next day when you're not so mad at me, you think about what I said. Okay?"

Santana refused to answer. What a stupid fucking thing to say. As if she were going to be able to think about anything else, now.

...

**Saturday, August 20 / 12:30pm**

Santana was yelling at the people in the other cars more than usual today. She'd been in a really good mood the last couple of days, ever since she told her mother about their relationship, but now she wouldn't stop honking the horn.

"Are you nervous?" Brittany asked her, looking up from the schedule of the weekend tour and tryouts she had been studying.

"No, I'm pissed. This guy just cut me off and now he's going like 40 miles an hour," Santana said, gesturing angrily out the front window.

"Isn't that the speed limit?"

Santana only intensified her glare.

"You shouldn't be nervous," Brittany offered, taking a guess that actually was what was wrong, despite Santana's protestations. "This is your week, Santana. You can do anything."

"I'm not nervous," Santana snapped at her. "I'm busy hoping this isn't a waste of my time."

Brittany pouted her lower lip and returned to the papers in her lap.

"But, how could it be a waste of time? We get to do so much stuff. They're giving us a tour of the whole campus this afternoon, and then the team is going to perform, and then they take us to dinner. It won't be a waste of time," she repeated.

"Except we already saw the squad perform, and they weren't even as good as us, remember?"

Brittany shifted in her seat. Sometimes when calming Santana down didn't work, you had to get mad back.

"Santana, I really want to go to this school and you're hurting my feelings," she said firmly.

It worked.

"I know, I'm sorry," Santana said right away. "I know you like it there, and I'm totally going to try to get it this time. But Britt, have you thought any more about coming to try out with me at USC? You're totally good enough to get in."

"Santana, I told you. I want to go to Toledo. It's where my mom went, and I like it there, and I don't want to go far away from my brother and sister and all my cousins."

Santana stared, defeated, at the road.

"Maybe you'll like it better this time," Brittany said with a sigh, hoping it was true, considering Santana kept insisting that she'd decided to enroll there.

They navigated the maze of a parking garage and walked the quarter-mile to the student center, where the group of prospective cheerleaders was supposed to meet. Brittany remembered something as they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the building, and rifled through her backpack.

She pulled out a navy blue cloth Toledo University wristband and handed it to Santana.

"It's from my mom."

Santana smiled weakly and slid it onto her wrist.

The vibe inside the lobby was nervous and awkward. The prospectives milled about, some alone and some in small groups; no one really mingled. They were welcomed by a few current members of the squad who were staffing the check-in table. Every one of them was blonde, perky, and decked out in more school colors than should be physically possible. Santana immediately wanted to smother them with a pillow in their sleep.

"I thought they were nice," Brittany shrugged when Santana voiced this aloud.

"other than you, I like my cheerleaders cutthroat, not cuddly."

"But if they're cuddly, it's probably easier to destroy them and become the best one, right?"

Sometimes you had to put things into Santana-words.

"I guess that's true," Santana said.

The tour began about fifteen minutes late. Brittany diligently noted the locations of the financial aid offices, the student health center, and the office of student housing. Santana admitted via discreet text messages that she was spending her time taking mental notes on the competition.

The athletic center was Brittany's favorite; there was a sparkling Olympic-sized swimming pool, a fitness center complex so big you couldn't even see one end from the other, and a full gymnastics and tumbling center.

The performance the squad put on was so awesome, it was all she could do not to go join in. Even Santana bounced her knees and seemed to be paying attention. Brittany wasn't sure whether it was to the routine or to look for weak links, but at least she was invested.

The cafeteria was catered for the occasion. Coach Brighton made a point to say hi to them as they took seats together at one of the only open tables.

"Hey, I recognize you guys!" a perky voice said from behind them.

Santana and Brittany stopped chewing in surprise as two of the current members of the squad plopped their trays down on the table next to them.

"You're McKinley, right? Sue Sylvester's team?"

Santana sat up straighter and a smile spread across her face. Finally, some fans – it was about time.

"How did you know that?" Brittany asked.

"You beat us at Regionals two years ago. I went to Carmel. I remember you two and one other girl who were the standouts – another blonde, I think. Is she here, too? Are you guys joining as a team?"

"Nope, just the two of us," Santana said. "She didn't really have what it takes."

"Didn't you guys all quit the team, though? My sister said it's why Carmel finally got to Nationals this year."

The smile faded from Santana's face.

"Coach Sylvester didn't care for our well-being," Brittany intoned.

"Oh yeah, I've heard terrible things," the girl said. "Like she was so mean and aggressive."

"She liked to win," Santana said, shrugging.

Brittany noticed the smile fading from their new friend's face.

"I'm Brittany," she said, extending her hand. "And this is Santana."

The cheerleader smiled again. "I'm Mallory, and this is Devi. So what do you guys think so far?"

"I totally want to come here," Brittany enthused. "I love it."

"Are you trying out anywhere else? With credits like yours you could probably go anywhere."

"I'm trying out at USC in September," Santana said.

"Oh, wow. That's pretty impressive," Mallory nodded. "Good luck."

"So what programs are you guys looking at here?" Devi asked.

"Programs?" Brittany asked.

"I mean, what you want to major in."

"Oh, I don't know," Brittany said, as Santana shrugged, disinterested.

"Well, you don't have to decide until your second year anyway. I think I'm going to declare as a business major this year, so when my looks and athletic abilities go, I can make tons of money."

That seemed very wise to Brittany. Santana barely refrained from telling this Devi chick she sounded like her mother.

"Do you guys have boyfriends?" Mallory asked.

Santana stiffened. Brittany looked over at her, and shook her head.

"Oh, I'm sorry, should I not ask?" Mallory said apologetically. "Did one of you have a bad break-up or something?"

"I did, sort of," Brittany said. It wasn't a lie, she supposed.

"Just tell her, Brittany," Santana said.

Brittany turned to look at Santana, who gave her a tiny nod.

"Tell me what?"

"We're a couple," Brittany said, a smile widening across her face as she said the words with Santana's blessing. "She's my girlfriend."

She could practically feel Santana holding her breath as they waited for the cheerleaders' reactions. Although, her happiness at being able to tell them the truth was somewhat mitigated by the nagging worry that Santana had only allowed it because she never planned on seeing them again after this weekend.

"Oh, wow," Devi said. "So what happens if one of you comes here and the other one doesn't? My boyfriend and I tried to do the long distance thing for a while when we started college, but we broke up by Halloween."

"Tactful, Dev," Mallory admonished. "Don't listen to her - they broke up because she's a total ho. You guys could just make a lot of trips back and forth. Could be fun."

Brittany looked at Santana, who looked at her plate of pasta.

"Yeah, totally. I could fly to California a lot," Brittany said.

...

The roommate assignments for the weekend were random, so obviously they had to switch with someone.

"The idea is to get to know people you haven't met yet," one of the current cheerleaders scolded as Santana zeroed in on a timid, awkward girl who clearly wasn't there with anyone.

"I don't meet people. People meet me," Santana said, slipping her new room key into her pocket.

They reluctantly claimed separate beds once in the room. They didn't have to discuss who would get the top and who would get the bottom bunk; Brittany always had the top one officially, but they both always slept in it.

"We haven't shared bunk beds since we were kids at camp," Brittany said, knowing it didn't need to be said, but wanting to bring up the topic.

"Good times," Santana said, raising and lowering her eyebrows at Brittany.

"Sooo, we have gym passes for the day. Do you want to go?" Brittany asked as they arranged their luggage in the corner.

"Not really. I mean, don't you think we should rest up for tomorrow?"

"No way, I want to go play. Come with me, Santana, please?"

Santana sighed. She didn't relish the idea of hanging out here in the room with four girls she didn't know. "Yeah, all right."

...

"Check it out, Santana, bouncy floor!"

Brittany flew past Santana in a blur and flung herself into a round-off back handspring.

"What, no back tuck?" Santana challenged, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I'm just warming up," Brittany said a little breathlessly, loping back towards Santana.

"Synchronized," Santana said. "Let's go."

...

Later they were catching their breath, sitting on the corner of the tumbling area, when a group of other prospective and current members of the squad paraded by.

"Santana, Brittany!" Mallory called out. "Want to go bowling in the rec center?"

"Yeah!" Brittany said, leaping to her feet.

"Britt, I'm all sweaty," Santana said, tugging at Brittany's pant leg. "Plus, bowling is tacky."

Brittany looked at Santana, who wore a scowl but hadn't yet taken her eyes off the group of laughing students headed for the door.

"Well, I don't like it either," she said. "I always feel so bad for the pins. But I want to go, Santana, please? Maybe we can just watch."

"Ugh, fine."

...

"Your feet look so cute in those shoes," Brittany said, pointing at Santana's feet. "They look like duck-billed platypuses."

Brittany smiled as she got that look that Santana gave her when she didn't really understand, but didn't entirely want to let on how cute she thought Brittany was.

Brittany bowled on Mallory's team while Santana watched from one of the tables behind the lanes.

"For someone with so much coordination, you really suck at this," she observed once after Brittany knocked down three pins, which was just about her average.

"Why don't you roll the next one, Santana?"

"Ooooh, I think she's telling you to put your money where your mouth is," one of the guys at the next alley laughed.

She had no choice now. Santana stood and took the ball from Brittany.

"Watch out, we got a lefty," the same guy called out.

Santana knocked down the rest of the pins, allowed Brittany to hug her, and sat down with a smile.

"I'm not gonna lie," the guy said, sliding into the swivel seat across from Santana. "I kind of have a thing for lefties."

"That so?" Santana said, regarding him with a half smile and narrowed eyes.

"Yeah, that's so. And for good bowlers."

"Are you on the squad?" Santana asked.

"For two years," he said. "I'm Alex." He held out his hand.

"Santana. So who's the head cheerleader, is she here?"

"We have two co-captains. 'Fraid they're not here, though, sorry."

"Are they both seniors?"

"Indeed." He smiled at her. "You know, I dig ambitious, too."

"Ahhh. I hate to break it to you, Alex, but I don't date male cheerleaders."

"Wow, okay," he bristled. "Little closed-minded, don't you think? It's more athletic than football."

"Shit, I know that," Santana said. "Look, the problem isn't with the 'cheerleader' part, if you catch my drift."

As Brittany slid into the seat next to her after bowling her next turn, Santana held out her hand. Brittany took it, smiling.

"Ohh, no shit," Alex said, a smile of realization spreading across his face. "I'm – my bad," he said. Then turning to a group of students behind him he called out, "Hey Hannah! You're not the only one anymore!"

...

"So how long have you guys been together?" Hannah asked, sipping a soda across the table from Santana and Brittany.

"Officially? Four months," Santana said.

"What about unofficially?"

Santana shrugged with a smile. "Forever."

"Awww, that's so gross," Hannah smirked.

Santana chuckled, which made Brittany happy.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Brittany asked.

"I got a few," Hannah said, winking at her.

"How many is a few?" Santana asked.

"Right now I'm dating three girls. Gotta play the field, you know? Not all of us meet our true love when we're seven or however old y'all were."

"Do they all go here?" Santana asked.

"Two of them do. So are you guys out at school?"

"I think people kinda figured it out," Brittany said. "They'll know for sure this year when I take Santana to Homecoming."

"Man, I don't miss high school," Hannah said. "Everyone makes such a big fucking deal trying to figure out who's gay."

"College is better?" Brittany asked.

"Totally. People got their own shit going on. They don't care who you're sleeping with."

"So you don't get any shit for being a gay cheerleader?" Santana said. "What is this, an alternate universe?"

"I'm not saying it's a total breeze," Hannah shrugged. "But I wasn't about to join the softball team when I wanted to be a cheerleader, you feel me?"

"Softball gives Santana the heebie jeebies."

"Up top," Hannah said, putting her hand in the air. "You and me, girl, we're going to form the Lesbians Against Softball Association, Toledo University chapter," she said, as Santana high fived her.

"So now I know softball is out, but what do y'all do for fun?"

"Drink and smoke pot, mostly," Santana said. "There aren't that many options in Lima."

"We play in a band," Brittany reminded her.

"Sweet," Hannah said. "What do you play?"

"Santana sings and I play drums."

"We're in the show choir at school," Santana said. "But please don't tell anyone that. It's like, easier to tell people I'm gay."

"We have an a capella group here, actually," Hannah said, laughing. "A couple of our guys are in it, including Alex. Personally, I think it's why he has such terrible gaydar. Yo, Alex!" she said, yelling to him across two lanes. "I've got some recruits for your little sing-y dance-y group," she said, punctuating it with jazz hands.

"Don't mind me," she said, turning back to Santana and Brittany. "I think it's awesome, actually, but he can never know that."

"You guys sing?" Alex said, joining them with a couple of friends.

"She's so good," Brittany said, tilting her head toward Santana.

"Okay, what do you say let's move this party out of the bowling alley, before Alex falls in love with your girlfriend?" Hannah said to Brittany.

"To where?" Brittany asked.

"I don't know. Are y'all hungry? If we leave now we can make it to Breadstix for the late night special. You assholes want to go eat?" she asked, turning to Alex and his friends.

This time, Brittany didn't have to ask Santana if she wanted to go.

...

They laid awake in their bunks until there was no noise in the room from the other four girls.

When she was convinced all of the breathing in the room was low and slow enough, Santana climbed into the top bunk, where Brittany was waiting. Brittany pulled the covers up over them, and wiggled them backwards until they were smashed up against the wall, hidden from view.

Like always, Santana parted her knees to rest her top thigh on Brittany's hip, and Brittany's leg slid firmly between Santana's legs.

They kissed in silence, years of practice guiding their muscle memory of how to be soundless as snow.

They held each other at the sides of their faces, thumbs grazing jawlines, and at the back of the neck, fingernails teasing the bumps of the vertebrae.

Brittany shifted, and Santana seamlessly joined the movement, rolling onto her back. Brittany pushed her flat against the mattress, and Santana breathed through Brittany's hair.

Brittany nudged Santana's chin to the side and took her earlobe between her lips. She tickled it with the tip of her tongue at first, then teased all along the perimeter of it warm kisses.

Santana knew exactly why Brittany was doing that. She used to do the same thing when they were younger, back when making the transition from cuddling to sex was less a sure thing, when there was always the question hanging in the darkness – _is that thing we keep doing going to happen again_?

Kissing Santana's ears was less scary, back then, than kissing her lips. It was a way of extending the tickling and cuddling but also of saying, _yes, again_.

Santana held Brittany at the small of her back, just like she did back then. It was because it was a place far from the scarier parts to touch, like her breasts or her butt or eek, between her legs. And yet, it was a way of keeping her close. Pulling them together and saying _It's okay. Keep going_.

Brittany dug her toes into the mattress and, taking care not to creak the bed or rustle the blankets, used the leverage to rock herself up and down against Santana. That was part of how it all started, too. One of them bumping against the other in just the right way and catching a look that said, _oh my God, I felt that too. _

Santana's stomach tensed up beneath Brittany as she curled her hips upward. Brittany lifted her head from Santana's ear and looked down at Santana's face as their centers melded together.

Brittany let the pressure of Santana's fingers against her lower back tell her how fast to go, and how hard. Santana opened her mouth in a soundless gasp as Brittany's hips went to work against her, her eyes pleading with Brittany behind fluttering eyelashes. Brittany worked her fingers into the hair at the back of Santana's neck, finding it starting to dampen with sweat.

Santana squeezed her eyes shut tight, a grimace of concentration on her face. Brittany rose to her knees above Santana and, in the same fluid motion, found Santana's clit with the fingertip of her right hand.

It was Brittany who had been brave enough to do it first, back then. She knew they both knew there was a faster, easier thing to do, but for a long time, neither of them made the move. Then one night when Santana was sweating and frustrated, Brittany couldn't take it anymore, and she reached down and touched. It was the first time she learned that girls got their underwear all wet when they were having sex. After that, she had trouble keeping her fingers out of that warm, slippery stuff at all.

Tonight, Brittany wanted to be inside so badly, the pool between Santana's legs teasing her fingers. But it was too much movement and, with Santana this wet, it would make too much noise.

Brittany flattened the palm of her hand against Santana's lower belly, fingers pointing down, the middle one poking in between the folds of her skin. She pulled upwards with her fingertip brushing lightly against Santana's clit, watching, patiently waiting until she knew she had found the exact right motion. When Santana's legs shuddered against her, she knew she had it. So she repeated it again, and again, and again, Santana's hard little nub moving satisfyingly beneath her fingertip.

The weight of Brittany's palm covering her abdomen, the way her whole hand was rocking against Santana's body, it was almost as good as the fingertip against her sensitive little bundle of nerves. Santana let her knees fall open as she felt her body begin to surrender. With her free hand, Brittany nudged her pillow closer to Santana, and Santana remembered and covered her face with it, throwing her arm over top to smother any accidental noises that could escape her throat.

"I love you, Santana," Brittany was whispering in her ear as the hazy tunnel vision started to clear from Santana's brain. Yes, that had been said once a long time ago in a bunk bed, too.

Santana opened her eyes and looked up to see Brittany hovering over her. She wasn't sure which of them had moved the pillow from her face, but she didn't think it she had done it herself. Her hands were above her head, and she wasn't sure how that had happened either, but she hoped it hadn't been noisy.

Brittany was staring down at her with a small smile and heavy eyelids.

Santana grabbed her roughly at the back of the neck and slid her hand beneath their bodies. Brittany drew her knees up beside Santana's hips, her center open above Santana's belly. Santana lifted the big, white t-shirt Brittany had worn to bed and pulled Brittany's left nipple into her mouth. It probably wasn't until a while later they had learned this made Brittany come fast.

Brittany rubbed herself against Santana's fingertips in quick, tiny strokes, silent because she was moving only her hips. She leaned forward and breathed into Santana's neck while she came, Santana holding the side of her face to muffle noise.

Brittany sunk her teeth lightly into the skin of Santana's neck as the last waves of pleasure radiated through her.

_Fuck,_ Santana mouthed at her silently and let her eyes roll back into her sockets.

Brittany smiled and raised her eyebrows as if to ask, _again_?

Santana smiled back, and shook her head a little. Brittany rolled off of Santana and onto her side, and Santana settled into her, her lips against Brittany's chest, their legs tangled together, doing nothing for a while except breathing against each other.

"What if you get in and I don't?" Santana asked later, in a whisper so soft, it barely made it to Brittany's ears.

Brittany smiled, lifting Santana's chin so she could read her lips.

"We're both going to get in," she whispered back.

Santana shook her head and pressed her fingertips into Brittany's back.

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"But what if we don't?"

"It doesn't matter," Brittany said, taking soft tastes of Santana's bottom lip. "Wherever we go, it's going to be okay. It doesn't mean we lose each other."

Brittany knew Santana thought she was naïve sometimes.

What Santana didn't understand was that sometimes, it's the saying things in the first place that helps make it become _more_ than just words.

She kissed Santana's forehead.

"Don't worry, baby," she whispered. "It's going to be okay."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: **Apologies for the lateness of this update. Took a weekend getaway instead of writing last week. Expect the remaining two chapters to appear on or around the next two Fridays.

**Author's note 2:** Thank you to everyone who's been leaving me kind reviews. I'm writing this story because I love it, but the support is very heartening and encouraging! I'm sorry for being terrible at responding, but I hope to do that after the story itself is finished.

**Author's note 3:** Holy cow, I wrote a chapter with no Santana.

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, August 28  10:35am**

The first time Rachel Berry realized she was in love with Quinn Fabray, the moment was bathed in moonlight and drenched in the scent of daffodils, and full of the promise of the brand new summer that was about to begin.

At the time, sitting face to face with Quinn on her back porch in the dark, Rachel hadn't heard choirs of angels, or felt the urge to shout from any rooftops. It wasn't like a bolt of lightning or any other sort of metaphorical epiphany like that.

But looking back on it now, it was easy to label the moment for what it was. It was when she first felt helpless when it came to Quinn.

This morning, on a cloudy Sunday three months later, it occurred to Rachel that the reason people are giddy when they're falling in love is not necessarily happiness; it's because they've been freed of any semblance of control. They're strapped in, sitting at the peak of that first roller coaster hill, and there's no way out but down.

And Rachel was still in the middle of the free fall of that hill. That was perfectly clear today, as she lay in bed, her hand working against herself under the blankets, pleasure and misery mixing in her belly. A few hours this morning spent on memories, and she was powerless.

**Sunday, May 29 / 2:17am**

Rachel's eyes were finally adjusting to the darkness. In the moonlight, she could just start to make out the features of Quinn's face again. They sat cross-legged on the scratchy plastic rug that covered the cement porch that jutted out into the back yard from Rachel's dads' kitchen.

It was the first day of summer. Yes, the calendar still read May. And it was true that school hadn't quite yet released them into freedom for the year, but you couldn't tell that to the warm, humid air and the tufts of daffodils that lined the porch. And you couldn't convince the pit of Rachel's stomach, either. Everything about this night told her it was a new season.

"Did you ever catch fireflies when you were little?" she asked Quinn in a soft voice, almost reluctant to break the silent spell.

"Mmhmm," Quinn said, turning her head to watch the tiny flashes of golden light glitter in Rachel's back yard. "But I never kept them in a jar, though. I always let them go."

"Me too," Rachel said. "Seemed mean to keep them."

"I had this cousin . . . sorry, actually this isn't a very nice memory."

"It's okay," Rachel encouraged. "I want to hear it."

"Well, he used to catch them and pull off their little lights."

"Oh no," Rachel murmured.

"He would smear them across his face, like war paint. He thought it looked so cool. Really he looked like an alien."

"I guess little boys are like aliens sometimes," Rachel said.

"He was. He and I used to have these epic hair-pulling fights," Quinn said with a wistful smile, and it seemed like she was thinking of this for the first time in years, like each memory was being revealed to her as she spoke. "He would tell me he was going to karate chop me if I told on him, whatever that meant, but it sounded very convincing at the time. Oh, and he once told my parents I taught him the f-word."

"Did you?"

"Maybe," Quinn smiled shyly, and Rachel clapped her hands together softly in amusement.

"I think I was proud of myself for knowing something so naughty."

"Which cousin is this?"

"My mom's sister's son, Jonah. But I don't think we've ever called each other by our real names. We had this long list of nasty nicknames for each other. And, before you even ask, no I won't repeat them," Quinn said, grinning.

"I take it they were more offensive than 'Quinnie,' like the rest of your family seems to call you."

"Yes. God, that sounds so weird coming from you," Quinn said. "I don't think you should say that."

"What about 'Q?'" Rachel teased. "Can I call you that?"

"If you want, but you should know it evokes a visceral desire to punch you."

"Maybe not, then."

"So how come you don't have any nicknames, Rachel Berry?" Quinn said, poking the tip of Rachel's nose with her index finger.

"Are you kidding? I've been given at least two hundred of them since I started hanging out with Santana."

"No, you know what I mean. Nobody calls you anything consistently except 'Berry,' which isn't even a nickname. Why don't you ever get 'Rachie' or 'R' like I get 'Quinnie' and 'Q?' It isn't fair."

"I guess I get 'Rach' sometimes."

"I guess. But I want you to have something annoying like I have, though. Like, 'Rachie, come down for dinner!' or 'Yo R, what do you want to sing at sectionals?' or 'R-chie—'" Quinn stumbled over her words, and her eyes widened in surprise at what had just come out of her mouth.

Rachel keeled over backwards, clutching her stomach.

"Did you just call me 'Archie?'"

"No! I mean, yes, but I didn't mean to! I think I figured out why nobody calls you those nicknames, they're too hard to say."

"They're better than Archie."

"I think it might be too late," Quinn said, reaching her hand out to grasp Rachel's chin playfully. "I think we've found you a new nickname."

Rachel pouted. "Don't I get veto power?"

"Mm-mm. Afraid not, Archie."

"Stop," Rachel said, grinning.

"Make me."

**Sunday, August 28 / 10:35am**

She had kissed Quinn to be funny, to make her stop teasing. The silence of the night had been thick, and she could remember the sound of their lips meeting, tongues twisting against each other and then parting, only to meet again a beat later.

Lying on her back beneath her crisp white sheet and fluffy down comforter, Rachel ran her tongue over her lips.

In her life, she had thought about kissing girls. Before Santana and before Quinn, the thought _had_ actually crossed her mind. Never about any specific girls that she knew in person, it was true. Self-repression, maybe? That was possible.

But the occasional actress, or singer, or whatever, had flashed on the backs of her eyelids while she was fantasizing, even when she was quite young. Nervous about the implications, she had done her research online and in magazines, and found that was true of most women. She had never thought about going down on another girl before she had been with one.

That night on the porch with Quinn, she had never wanted to do anything so badly.

It was a ridiculous idea, that one way of having sex with a girl made you any "gayer" than any other way. That putting your mouth there, making a girl come with your tongue and your lips was any gayer than doing it with your fingers or other body parts. But. . . then again, it was really _intimate_. Maybe it was the most intimate thing Rachel could think of doing with another person.

She understood now it's why she had wanted to do it – why she couldn't stop herself from wanting to do it.

A chill had nipped at the edges of the air by that time of night, and the plastic rug wouldn't have been comfortable on bare skin, so Rachel had left on Quinn's blouse and sweater. She'd bunched up Quinn's skirt and lowered her panties. Remembering the look in Quinn's eyes as she realized what Rachel was planning to do squeezed a groan from Rachel's throat.

"Can I?" Rachel had whispered down at her, and Quinn had hesitated, conflicting emotions flickering across her face. But she nodded, so Rachel kissed her lower stomach and looked up at Quinn one last time. Quinn's eyes were asking her for something, but not just sexual release. Rachel still didn't know exactly what it was.

She planted warm kisses up and down Quinn's center, letting Quinn get used to the feel of her lips down there. It was an eternity before she used her fingers to open Quinn and taste her inside.

Other than that, the memory of the eternity of being close but not yet _there,_ with the rich scent in her nose and the hints of wetness against her lips, Rachel had trouble remembering the mechanics, how she'd done what and when. It was funny, given the vivid detail she could conjure for the kissing, and the words, and the looks.

All she had now was the feeling of it. That feeling of immersion. The feeling of wanting to do anything, everything to make Quinn feel good, to make Quinn _know_ she could make her feel good. She didn't care if she couldn't breathe right or the muscles in her jaw burned or Quinn's heel was twisting the skin on the back of her thigh. All of that was perfect.

In her bed, Rachel rolled onto her stomach, twisting the sheet between her legs. She lifted herself onto her left elbow and pulled her pillow toward her, burying her face in it, putting pressure against her mouth and her chin the way she'd done against Quinn's body. Her mouth watered as her finger circled her clit. When she came, she moaned into her pillow the way she had moaned against Quinn's body.

**Thursday, August 25 / 5:08pm**

"Thanks for meeting up with me, Rachel," Quinn said, forcing a smile.

"You're welcome, Quinn," Rachel said. "Thanks for the coffee."

When Quinn had called her last evening, it was clear that the excuse of wanting to meet up so that she could return Rachel's father's book was exactly that – an excuse. She had surprised herself by saying yes so easily. Sure, there had been moments of thaw since the trauma of midsummer, but this was the first time they'd expressly chosen to spend time together for the sake of it.

Rachel had tried to mentally prepare for any possibility. Would there be a tearful apology, or a doleful plea for a second chance? Or maybe the complete opposite, where Quinn made an awkward attempt to show Rachel she was completely fine without her? Or would it be anticlimactic, just a lot of tense nothingness?

"So how have you been?" Quinn asked.

She was calm, Rachel observed. She wondered how rehearsed it was.

"Busy, I guess," Rachel answered, after weighing her response options and choosing the safest one. "The show opens soon so I've had rehearsal every day for the past two weeks. I'm still volunteering, of course. I'm writing songs in my spare time, although I haven't really had much of it lately."

_And I'm dating_, she added silently.

"Oh, and of course I'm still tutoring Santana and Brittany."

"How are they doing on the reading and writing parts?" Quinn asked.

"They're taking it a little more seriously, lately."

"Yeah. I've noticed that, too."

"You know they had their tryouts over the weekend."

"Yeah," Quinn nodded. "Santana says it went well."

"I got the slightly more effusive version from Brittany. She's going to end up there for sure, as long as she can keep her grades up. I guess the only question is whether Santana's ego will allow her to go to a school she feels is beneath her."

"Santana wants to be on a team that can be the best," Quinn said. "It wouldn't be an easy choice."

"Wow, you're defending Santana's ego," Rachel noted. "I'm not sure I've witnessed this before."

Quinn furrowed her brow, looking down at the table.

"Rachel . . I'm sorry if I ruined your summer."

Of course Quinn's apology would be oblique.

"That's kind of a strange way to put it, Quinn," Rachel said with a brief smile. "Like you broke our vacation plans or something."

"I did break our plans, I guess."

"Well, I appreciate your apology, but you didn't ruin my summer. I decided not to let you."

Quinn swallowed. "I'm glad. I wanted to tell you that last week I told my therapist I was a lesbian."

Rachel set her coffee down on the table. The way Quinn was blurting things out, it was clear that actually, this wasn't rehearsed at all.

"I didn't know you were seeing a therapist," she said.

"Nobody knows," Quinn said, punctuating it with an expression Rachel took to mean _and keep it that way._

"Is it helping you?"

Quinn shrugged. "Probably not."

Rachel frowned.

"But, I've only been there three times," she added. "So who knows?"

"_Lesbian." So no more boys_, Rachel thought. _Quit having butterflies about that, Rachel. It doesn't mean anything._

Rachel wasn't sure she wanted to ask more about Quinn's therapy, or about Quinn's declaration. She wasn't sure at all what level of intimacy they were ready to operate on, here.

Quinn seemed reluctant to continue as well. Awkward silence threatened.

"Oh, here," Quinn said, reaching into her bag and pulling out the thick, white paperback that was ostensibly the reason for their meeting. "I feel bad I've had it all this time. Tell your Dad I'm sorry. He can charge me overdue fees or something."

"It's no big deal, Quinn. But I am confused, because I thought you told him you didn't want to read this."

"Curiosity got the better of me," Quinn said sheepishly. "I sneaked down the stairs from your room to look at it that same night, and wound up taking it with me."

"Did you like it?"

"I loved it."

She reached under the table again to pull her messenger bag out from under her. After rummaging for a moment, she pulled out a bound document and handed it to Rachel.

"What's this?"

"I know this is going to sound weird, but it's my AP World History summer homework," Quinn said. "It's a first draft, but I wanted you to read it."

"Why?" Rachel asked, taking it from Quinn and flipping open the cover. "What is it about?"

"We had to pick an aspect of modern culture, like it could be anything, and analyze it from a historical perspective. It was supposed to be across multiple cultures and time periods. I picked society and homosexuality."

"Oh. That's really awesome, Quinn," Rachel said, impressed by the sheer weight of the booklet in her hands.

"I wanted you to read it because . . because you inspired it. You and your ridiculous power point at the beginning of the summer. Well, that and your Dads' books."

Rachel smiled. This wasn't a scenario she'd imagined at all. "I'll read it tonight."

"It's dry and academic. It'll bore you to tears. But writing it. . . it made me feel better," Quinn said.

"Yeah. I'll read it tonight," Rachel affirmed.

**Sunday, August 28 / 11:05am**

The second time Rachel Berry realized she was in love with Quinn Fabray had happened about an hour ago, here on her bed alone, and had all the promise of a pile of concrete bricks stacked up on her chest.

She stroked the naked skin of her belly, lying on her back once more.

Like a snap of the fingers or the flip of the page, it all felt so empty. The dates she'd been going on and the cheerful proclamations she'd been making to Santana or anyone else who would listen about moving on and focusing on her goals were like holograms fading from view.

She had been kidding herself. And not just about Quinn.

_I'm guess I'm bisexual_.

It was the first time she had ever uttered those words, even in her own head. But here she was, clearly in love with another woman even though in her head she'd decided to move on. She'd just spent the past half hour remembering how it felt to taste her while she brought herself to climax. Not that it was her first clue – hadn't it been Rachel who had, in the truest sense of the word, initiated her affair with Santana? It had been with a look – an unintended, over-the-shoulder glance. Santana had known what that look meant better than Rachel had herself.

She supposed it was likely that the capacity to fall in love with a girl was always going to be there, and it was something she had better set about getting used to.

In that respect, it turned out that Brittany, Santana, and even Quinn had quite a head start on her.

Rachel sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, and pulled on her t-shirt. Still a little wobbly-legged, she stood and crossed the room, and perched on her desk chair with her knees drawn up to her chest.

The morning's realizations had nothing directly to do with the content of the document that lay open to the last page in front of her, although it hadn't been dry and academic like Quinn had said at all. In fact, the words had practically leapt off the page – Quinn was really talented. Instead, all the thinking probably had more to do with the fact that Quinn, who had loved her, dumped her, broken her heart and slept with someone else, had needed her to read it in the first place.

The truth was, Quinn had needed Rachel to read about the things she'd spent her summer learning.

At first, Rachel didn't understand why she was reading them at all. Why did Quinn care if she read about early religions and the way sexuality, especially of women, was first revered, then feared, then criminalized? Why had Quinn wanted her to see what she had learned about how religion used politics as a tool, and vice versa? Why did Quinn care how cultures seemed to pick and choose the rules and customs haphazardly? They were all focal points of this paper about homosexuality and society, but why?

It was only puzzling until Rachel realized that all of this stuff, all of these ideas – this was Quinn trying to wrap her head around the big picture. The really, really big picture.

Of course it was.

Quinn, who had locked herself away for the second half of the summer and worried her mother and her friends, had been finding her own way to understand. Or at least, to start understanding. She was going to therapy, that was one thing. Coming at it through her intellect was another.

Rachel realized that before today, she hadn't understood the conflict, not really. Maybe she'd been used to Santana, whose insecurities were based in the perceptions of the outside world, whose problems with her identity would go away, slowly but surely, once she had found herself a safe place.

Quinn wasn't that way at all, was she? What had started with the baby and finished with this summer's boyfriend, was that Quinn had lost herself, at least the self she thought she knew. It wasn't just boys and cheerleading and grades that made Quinn into the person she told herself she was – it was her attempt to live up to an ideal so deeply ingrained in her it had nearly squeezed out everything else.

Rachel was reading this paper because Quinn was trying to tell her, _I'm trying to understand where it all came from. How I fit in. _

What Rachel found herself wondering was how _she_ fit in to Quinn's search.

**Saturday, June 25 / 12:30pm**

"Thanks for writing it down for me," Finn said, sliding into his chair and pushing Rachel's coffee across the table toward her. "I never could have remembered all of those instructions."

Rachel smiled. "Thanks for buying," she said.

"It was the least I could do," Finn said with an uncomfortable smile. "You kinda had a bad morning."

Rachel nodded. She sipped her drink and glanced at Puck and Lauren, who sat a few tables over. She exhaled over the top of her mug to cool the coffee inside and tried to relax, to act casual. She could sense there was a capital-C conversation coming.

It was probably useless waiting for Finn to speak, she thought. He was concentrating very hard on appearing highly engrossed in his frappuccino.

"Thanks for coming with Puck this afternoon," she said, breaking the ice. "I know it can't be easy to be around Quinn and me."

There. Subject broached.

Finn shrugged. "I was hanging out at Lauren's with those guys anyway when you called," he said. "When Puck told me what happened I wanted to take a baseball bat to that guy." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I still care about you, you know. Both of you."

"Well, it means a lot, especially given the circumstances."

"Look, Rachel, can I ask you something?" he said, twisting the straw paper between his fingers. "I know it's probably none of my business or anything – you've moved on and I get that, but I have to ask."

Rachel braced herself. "Yeah. Go ahead."

Finn leaned forward, lowering his head. "Were you always, you know . . . gay?" The last word barely came out as a whisper. "I mean last year, and, like, before that?"

"You mean when we were dating," she translated.

"Well . . . yeah."

"First of all, Finn, I'm not gay. Labels matter, okay, and that one isn't accurate. Second of all, you know better than to ask me that." The next statement stuck in her throat for a second. "You know that I loved you."

"I'm sorry, Rachel," he said, the relief suddenly tangible in the air between them. "I guess I just needed to hear it." He paused. "So do you like only girls now, or . . .?"

Rachel sighed. "Look, Finn, I don't know what I am. I haven't had nearly enough time to explore my desires well enough to answer such a complex, multi-faceted question. However confused you are, trust me, it's more difficult for me." She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what else to say. If you're mad about Quinn and me it shouldn't be at me. It was over between us."

"Nahh, Rachel, I'm not mad. I guess I'm just. . . I'm sad."

"I'm sorry, Finn," Rachel said, though she wasn't entirely sure for what.

Finn scrunched his brow and fidgeted, his foot bumping hers under the table. "I guess I just thought, Rachel, that I'd always have a shot with you. That somehow, I don't know, we'd come back to each other when we worked out all this high school stuff."

Rachel looked at him sadly across the table. She didn't blame him; how could she? She'd be lying if she said that a few short months ago she didn't have the same idea locked away somewhere inside.

She only realized how much had changed when the next words came out of her mouth.

"But, Finn," she started slowly, "Don't you think maybe that was part of the problem with us?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that things could go wrong between us and we'd just take each other back, even though we never dealt with any of it. I think there's a reason we never worked, Finn, and it's because we assumed things would just . . . fix themselves, and all we had to do was get a little older and then try again. We never forgave each other, not really."

Finn pressed his lips together and stared at the table. Rachel waited a long time for him to respond, but that was okay. It was a lot to hear, she supposed.

"I wish you would have said this stuff when we were together, when I could have done something about it," he said, finally. "Now it's too late."

"I'm sorry, Finn," Rachel said. "I guess I didn't have enough distance from it then."

**Sunday, August 28 / 11:04am**

As she sat at her desk, staring down at the pages of Quinn's words, she wasn't really seeing the words. All she could see was the furrow of Quinn's brow and the purse of her lips as her mind churned out the ideas that her fingertips wove into sentences. Rachel thought she might like to lie on Quinn's bed sometime, and watch her type.

And that's when Rachel realized she was in trouble.

Somehow, between the therapist and the coming out and the research paper about all this heavy stuff, it seemed like this was a new Quinn. Or maybe it was the old Quinn, but with a few more layers peeled away, and Rachel needed to catch up.

In any case, the Quinn she was in love with now wasn't a pretty girl with a quick temper who needed patience until she could find her way out of the closet. This Quinn – the one looking for answers, the one who was finally tackling her problems in the ways that made sense for her – needed much, much more than that.

Rachel put her elbows on the desk and rested her forehead against her palms in despair.

Because, when had Rachel not wanted to give them to her, the things that she needed? She would take all the icy-cold anger and the self-loathing tears that Quinn had to give. She'd never not been willing to do that. And right now, at this very moment, there were blocking changes and director's notes in a stack of pages on her desk that she was supposed to be studying, and she wasn't doing that. If she was being honest, she didn't even want to get dressed and drive to Findlay for rehearsal. Her show, which opened in less than a week, felt like almost nothing when she thought of Quinn typing at this paper. This was how Rachel Berry truly knew she was in trouble.

It was possible that she didn't have the time, or the energy, or the strength to be anywhere near Quinn at this point in her life. It was possible that they couldn't fix what was broken between them and they couldn't progress without it.

It was possible that she should put this paper in a drawer and not talk to Quinn about it at all.

**Wednesday, August 17 / 3:35pm**

"Can you say something, please?" Quinn asked testily. The clock on the wall was ticking so fucking loudly she couldn't even think.

"Did you want to talk about your sister some more this week?"

"No. Say something not about me."

Her therapist smiled. "We're here to talk about you."

Quinn scowled.

"You can't tell anyone, right? Anything I say is private and that's the law?"

"As long as you're not hurting yourself or someone else, Quinn, you can completely rely upon doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Nobody keeps secrets."

"People in my profession do. But you shouldn't think of them as secrets, Quinn. Think of the things you tell me here as. . . truths. I want to know what's true for you."

Quinn sucked on the inside of her cheek, rubbed her palms together, and stared at the clock. Maybe she could wait it out. Fourteen more minutes and she could leave, and the decision was out of her hands.

"If you're having trouble getting something out, Quinn, let's talk about a related subject, and maybe we'll get there eventually. Is there something we can start with to make it a little easier?"

"No."

"All right."

The doctor folded his hands across the notepad in front of him, and waited.

Quinn made a bargain with herself. Three and a half minutes, and she would say it. She watched the second hand round the bottom of the clock's face. Her palms started sweating.

"I'm a lesbian."

It came out 47 seconds early. She exhaled for what felt like the first time in 35 minutes.

Her therapist opened his mouth to speak, but Quinn held up her hand.

"I'm going to go for the day."

"We still have ten minutes, Quinn. I think it's best if you stay so we can talk about what you've just told me."

She stood up.

"Not now."

**Wednesday, August 8 / 6:58pm**

Quinn wandered into her mother's bedroom around 7pm, knowing she'd be in her chair watching Jeopardy.

Judy's smile at Quinn's unexpected visit faded as she regarded her daughter's bloodshot eyes and uncombed hair.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Quinnie?" Judy asked, snatching the remote from the nightstand and turning down the volume.

"Does our insurance cover therapy?"

Quinn almost laughed at how quickly her mother turned ghostly white.

"Therapy?"

"Yeah, I want to talk to a shrink."

"I'm not sure, but I'd imagine so."

"Can you find out? I want to go to this one."

She tossed the card of Rachel's therapist's colleague on the bed.

"You know, Quinn, you can talk to me if—"

"No." Quinn said flatly.

"Okay, I'll make some calls in the morning."

"Thanks."

Quinn drifted out of her mother's room and back up the stairs to her bedroom.

**Friday, August 26 / 9:40pm**

Quinn was feeling homicidal, and with the way she was dressed right now, she could probably go ahead and go through with it without anyone knowing it was her. The fact that she was wearing jeans was out of character enough, but the Salvation Army red v-neck t-shirt that seemed to be endorsing a Cincinnati sports team (baseball, she thought) was even stranger to see when she glanced down at herself. The black baseball cap with the country club insignia that she had fished out of one of her father's old drawers was completely over the top, especially with her hair tucked up underneath. Forget Brittany and Artie – Quinn hoped no one in Lima would be able to recognize her looking like this.

Besides all that, she must look strange, sitting at a booth all by herself at a Dave and Busters. Looking around, she couldn't find one other person who was here alone. That was sure to call attention; she'd better stay on the move.

Not that she hadn't been all over this place already in the past hour and a half. She wasn't sure if it was Artie wanting to play every single game or Brittany not wanting any of them to feel left out or something ridiculous like that, but they didn't stay in one place for longer than like three minutes.

It was unbearably loud, with the electronic noise pollution of arcade games out-competed only by the squeal of kids or the rowdy shouting of teenagers – hence the blood lust simmering in Quinn's heart. It also meant she couldn't hear a damn thing those two were saying to each other. She would be amazed if they could even hear each other.

It really did all seem very innocent, though, and that was even considering Quinn was doing her best to look for trouble. (Because really, if she had to be doing this, she was going to do it right.) Artie was giving Brittany pointers on these first-person war game thingies, and she beat him twice at shooting basketballs. He watched while she played DDR. When he won a small stuffed Snoopy, Quinn watched with bated breath to see whether he handed it to her. Instead, he tucked it into his backpack.

There was something unnatural about the way they were interacting, though. It was there when they both accidentally reached for Brittany's soda, and again when they had to squeeze one in front of the other to pass through a crowd of people. She couldn't put her finger on it at first, and the cynic in her thought maybe they were pretending to behave themselves in public, only to act on their awkward sexual tension later.

But that was stupid, she realized. They were acting awkward because they _were_ awkward. They looked weird because it _was_ weird to hang out with an ex. It gave Quinn two immediate emotions: one was mild surprise at the realization that sometimes the social experiences of normal people did actually apply to Brittany Pierce, and the second was mild depression over the fact that this – the over cautiousness and the awkwardness – were all she could expect any time she saw Rachel. Hadn't yesterday at the coffee shop proved that much?

Depression turned out to hold less energy than murderousness. She was tired and there was nothing to see here, so Quinn decided to leave. She got up from the Ms. Pacman game that she had been pretending to push buttons on ever since departing her lonely booth, and circled around the back of the arcade in a roundabout approach to the front door.

Her cap was pulled down so low that she almost walked into the back of Artie's wheelchair. But that was probably what saved her from being busted, too, because she was able to turn her head away and bolt back into the bar area without being seen – she hoped.

So they were leaving, too. Damn it. Santana had been very clear on the rules – if there is a second location to this not-date, find out what it is, and go there.

She sighed and followed a group of teenaged boys out of the arcade, peering through their shoulders to keep an eye on Brittany's tall, blonde head.

They didn't go far. Brittany wheeled Artie up to the mall fountain, and sat next to him on a bench. Precariously out in the open now that her quarry had stopped moving, Quinn dove for cover behind a nearby mall map. She leaned against the far side of it, right at the edge, hoping to be able to make out conversation from here. She pulled out her phone and pretended to be engrossed, killing time while she waited for a non-existent companion.

Mercifully, there was a break in the crowd noise. At first Quinn heard only the splash of coins hitting the surface of the water, but then Brittany spoke.

"I'm excited to meet her. You know, someday."

"I'm not even sure when I'm going to meet her."

"She sounds so awesome from all the stuff you told me about her."

"I might be biased," Artie said, and Quinn could hear the grin in his voice. "I know it seems crazy liking someone so much when I've never met them. As if I needed more nerd cred, now I've fallen in love with someone playing online games. But we made this connection. I'm powerless to stop it."

Quinn sighed again, this time in relief. This was too good to be true. It was over, she could leave, and better yet she could give Santana good news that meant she'd never have to do this 007 routine again. Artie had a new girlfriend, Brittany was so awkward with him they barely came within arm's length of each other, and that was that.

"So when are you going to Skype with her?" Brittany was saying, and Quinn hesitated, curiosity getting the better of her.

"We have our first face-to-face date this weekend. I'm so nervous. Sometimes it's so much easier to be open with someone when they're this anonymous text box."

"But you know what she looks like and stuff, right?"

"Until I see her actually speaking to me, part of me will be afraid I've been fed fake pictures, and all this time I've been exchanging dirty text messages with a fifty-seven year old man."

Quinn cringed at that thought, and decided she'd heard enough to stamp this one "mission accomplished." As a rotund older couple toddled by, she used them to block what she estimated to be Brittany and Artie's line of sight, and disappeared into the depths of the Lima Mall.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thursday, September 1 / 7:40pm**

It took four vehicles to get everyone up to Findlay for the opening night of Rachel's show. Quinn rode in Santana's car, sitting in the back seat by herself. She almost wished she had reconsidered and switched for a seat in Blaine's car, or even tagged along with Mercedes, Sam, Tina, and Mike, or Finn, Puck, and Lauren. The layer of saccharine that coated Santana and Brittany in a warm, fuzzy aura of coupledom these days was starting to make her feel like her morning sickness was back. Even when the two of them bickered over the playlist on the stereo or Brittany scolded Santana to please not pass people on the shoulder of the highway because it was making her teeth hurt, it was somehow cute, and affectionate, and out-of-control disgusting.

She wondered if it had always been like that, and she just resented it more now.

They picked up their tickets at the will-call window and milled about in the lobby as they waited for the house doors to open. Quinn peered at the tiny cast picture that appeared in the collage posters advertising the show. She found Rachel, nothing but a floating brunette head in the second row, by her unmistakable "I'm about to be in a show" smile.

They flipped through the program as they settled into their seats, which Rachel had made sure were all in the third and fourth rows.

"Company, with a book by George Furth and music and lyrics by Stephen Sondheim," Sam read aloud, "Describes the love life of Robert, a thirty-five year old single man in New York City. While Robert entertains multiple girlfriends and ponders the value of marriage, the five long-term couples who are Robert's best friends encourage him to search for a more meaningful relationship."

"Soooo, in other words it's about a single dude with a sweet life who's got a bunch of married friends who won't leave him alone about finding a wife?" Puck asked, summarizing for himself. "Sounds like a barrel full of giggles. How come Rachel couldn't be in one of those shows where everyone gets naked?"

"Guys look," Brittany said, pointing to a page towards the back. "Rachel sent us a message."

"She's looking at the cast bios," Santana said. She and Quinn flipped through their booklets to find the page Brittany was reading.

"I recognize the headshot from the pile on her desk last spring," Quinn observed.

**Rachel B. Berry (Marta) **is proud to be making her Findlay Theater debut in this production of Steven Sondheim's _Company_. Rachel joins the cast straight from her high school show choir's 12th place finish in the American High School Show Choir Association's National Competition. Ms. Berry's high school credits include Sally Bowles in _Cabaret_ and Janet Weiss in _The Rocky Horror Show_.

Santana snickered next to Quinn. "Neither of those shows ever actually happened, but whatever, Berry."

She would like to thank the amazing cast and crew of _Company_, her vocal coach Mrs. Veronica Tothe, her choir director Mr. William Schuester, and the William McKinley High School New Directions for their talent and support. This performance is dedicated to her fathers, Mr. and Mr. Berry, and her best friends, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany. xoxo, Archie

Quinn stared at the book in her hands in disbelief.

"Archie?" Santana said. "What the fuck, did she misspell her own name? This is who I've been letting tutor me in English?"

"I – I don' t know," Quinn murmured, shaking her head. "Do you know when they write these things? Did they write them when they first got cast, or recently, or-?"

Brittany didn't say anything, but stared at Quinn with a little smile on her lips as the house lights came down.

Rachel had a spoken line right away, and that was all Quinn knew for the first few minutes of the show. Her eyes followed Rachel around the stage, tracking her through the ensemble of what must have been twenty actors, feeling the pull of a wide grin across her face. She waited for Rachel's eyes to brush across her, but they never did.

Next to her, Santana wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

"God damn her talent."

The plot of this musical, what there was of it, was confusing at first. Rather than a linear sequence of events, you seemed to be getting random, usually depressing, conversations between the married couples and Bobby. Quinn tried to recognize her parents in any of these couples for some kind of frame of reference, but gave up when they started smoking marijuana.

A row ahead and to her right, Kurt mouthed the words to the songs and the dialog. Puck bounced his knee in boredom.

Quinn could feel no affinity for the lead character, Bobby. He seemed shallow and immature. Actually, none of these characters seemed like particularly nice people. The couples bickered and undermined each other constantly; though she cared little about the plot and more about Rachel's stage time, she hoped it would get less depressing.

About halfway through the first act, Kurt turned his head to look at Quinn, Santana, and Brittany. "This is it," he mouthed excitedly, fluttering his hands to his lips.

Quinn peered at the song listing in the darkness. Rachel, as Marta, one of Bobby's three girlfriends, performed a song called "Another Hundred People." The character was the youngest in the show, and was supposed to be a hip, savvy New Yorker who reveled in the constant influx of new people into the city.

It took a few lines before Quinn even realized Rachel was singing. This had to do with the fact that she was sitting on a piano in a sleek black dress and fishnet stockings.

"Close your mouth, Fabray."

Quinn barely heard Santana making fun of her. Rachel was on a stage, pretending to be a New Yorker.

_I need to be around her. When she's a sophisticated, crazy New Yorker for real, I have to be there._

When it was over, Quinn wanted to leap to her feet. Or, if she were being honest, she wanted to rush the stage and hug Rachel. Or if that was inappropriate, she wanted to take out a billboard or some skywriting that said "THAT'S MY RACHEL AND SHE IS AMAZING!" Instead, she swallowed, smiled, and clapped, her heart in her throat.

At intermission, Kurt dabbed at the tears in his eyes.

"This show is kind of heavy," Sam commented. "What do you think is going to happen in the second act?" he asked Quinn.

"I can tell you this," Kurt said breathlessly. "Rachel isn't in the second act as much, but if you have a romantic bone in your body, you won't notice."

Quinn doubted that, but didn't argue. She didn't feel like talking at all, actually. She felt exhilarated and depressed at the same time, and moreover, she was busy becoming more and more aware, in the pit of her stomach, of how much she had lost this summer. It only took seeing Rachel in her element again.

Bobby had just finished singing a song called "Marry Me a Little," asking for someone he could commit to, but not entirely.

_Is that what I'm like? Closed off like that? Unable to let someone in?_

Her head swam through the second act of the show. Bobby's friends sang about how he hung around with couples but was never truly in one, and Quinn thought of her friends. Santana and Brittany, Kurt and Blaine, Puck and Lauren, Mercedes and Sam, Mike and Tina, Artie and. . . whatever her name was. God, that was everyone except her, and Rachel, and Finn. The perpetual triangle.

_Oh God, what if she goes back to him? I won't be able to stomach it._

Quinn held her breath as Robert and his friend Joanne, a rich, married woman who had just propositioned him, drank together at the climax of the show.

"I'll take good care of you, Bobby," Joanne had said.

"But. . . who will I take care of?" Bobby had replied.

Quinn thought it was brilliant, this one-line explanation of the difference between love, and not-love. She felt like her memory and her imagination were both churning at once, like maybe she was dying, with the way her life was flashing before her eyes, the way she was regretting a future that she might never have.

"_Rachel, wait," Quinn said, grabbing her hand before she could walk out of the room. "Come here."_

_Rachel, surprised, stopped in her tracks._

"_Your lipstick is a little smeared," Quinn smiled, running her thumb along Rachel's bottom lip._

"_Okay. Now you're good."_

"_Thanks, Quinn," Rachel smiled. She bent to kiss her on the lips._

"_Break a leg, Archie," Quinn smiled back, and Rachel raced out the door to her audition._

...

"_I am never drinking again," Rachel said, teetering back and forth as Quinn walked her from the toilet to her bed._

"_I've heard that one before," Quinn chided._

"_Okay, well," Rachel revised, "I'm never letting Santana mix the drinks again."_

"_I think that's fair," Quinn nodded. _

_She pulled down the covers on Rachel's bed and helped ease her down to the mattress._

"_Quinn?" Rachel said, "Can you hug me?"_

_Quinn slid wordlessly into the bed behind Rachel, wrapping her top arm around Rachel's chest and cradling her from behind._

"_Actually, Quinn?" Rachel asked a moment later, her voice small and apologetic._

"_Yeah?"_

"_Can you go get the wastebasket and set it by my head?"_

"_Yeah."_

_Quinn slid back out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom._

...

"_They're being ludicrously unfair!" Rachel exclaimed._

"_Rachel, calm down," Quinn sighed. "Sit down with me."_

_Rachel continued to wear a path in the carpet from one end to her room to the other._

"_I cannot sit in the face of this injustice, Quinn."_

"_They're just worried about you, Rach. My parents would never have let me go, either."_

"_It's just Chicago!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "It's only a four-hour drive!" _

"_More like five, actually," Quinn corrected her._

"_Ugghhhh," Rachel gurgled emphatically, finally flouncing down on the bed next to Quinn. "It's just not fair. How often is West Side Story performed by a professional company mere hours away?"_

"_It's okay, Rachel," Quinn said, putting her hand on Rachel's. "Someday when they revive it on Broadway, we'll go. We can start saving up now. Or . . ." she said, wrapping Rachel up in a bear hug and pulling her down on the bed beside her. "Or, by then you won't have to have tickets. You'll be in it."_

_Rachel sniffled and grew quiet, letting that thought take root. "That does make me feel a little better."_

"_I thought it might," Quinn said, kissing the top of Rachel's head._

_...  
><em>

_Quinn rolled over to look at the clock on the bedside table, though she knew from the way the moon was peeking through the buildings across the street from their 6th-floor apartment that it wasn't going to tell her any good news._

_She closed her eyes in frustration after reading 3:21._

"_Quinn," Rachel whispered again. "Can you go?"_

"_Mmmmm," Quinn groaned. "I went already."_

"_Please, Quinn?" Rachel pleaded. "I'll owe you the next two nights, okay? Please, I have a call at 7 downtown and they'll have to put extra makeup on me to hide bags beneath my eyes, and then I'll break out, and Quinn, it'll be vicious cycle of make-up and breakouts for the rest of my life and it all could start tonight."_

_There was no arguing. Quinn threw aside the comforter and swung her legs over the side of the bed._

"_Okay, sweetie," she called out in a sing-song voice as she stumbled from their bedroom across the hall to the baby's room. "Mama's coming."_

"_I love you," Rachel murmured from the bed as she curled into a ball and fell back asleep._

_I know, Quinn smiled silently._

_...  
><em>

The final song of the show, Quinn squinted to read through the darkness and the tears in her eyes, was called "Being Alive." Before it began, Bobby's friends urged on the revelation that he might actually want to open himself up to love.

ROBERT: Stop! What do you get?

Someone to hold you too close,  
>Someone to hurt you too deep,<br>Someone to sit in your chair, to ruin your sleep.  
>Someone to crowd you with love,<br>Someone to force you to care,  
>Someone to make you come through,<br>Who'll always be there,  
>As frightened as you<br>Of being alive

"_Rachel, can you just shut up?"_

"_No. You haven't answered me."_

"_I'm TIRED."_

"_We can't go to sleep like this."_

"_I assure you, I can."_

"_How are we ever going to get anywhere if you won't talk to me, Quinn?"_

"_There is nothing to talk about, Rachel. I was in a bad mood because I had cramps, now let it GO."_

"_Something is bothering you, Quinn. You can't tell me your sullenness with the children at Bible School and argumentativeness every time we get together with our friends are coming out of nowhere. Nobody has PMS for that long, not even you."_

"_Rachel," Quinn said, her voice growing soft. "Please leave it alone."_

"_Fine. Fine, I can't make you talk to me. But I can't go to sleep with you when we're upset with each other. I'm going home."_

"_Rachel, stop it. It's two-thirty in the morning."_

"_My car still works."_

_Rachel slipped on her flip-flops and threw on her hoodie, and vanished out Quinn's bedroom door._

_Quinn squeezed her eyes shut, sending tears down the sides of her face and onto the pillow beneath her._

_I don't need this, she thought. I don't need this, I don't need this. . ._

_..._

_Quinn picked at the piano in front of her, running through her latest song ideas in her mind. She was annoyed. It's not like she needed this hassle; she was only doing this to keep an eye on the little shit, after all._

_Jesus, where is she? As if she needed to add one more quality – tardy – to her list of undesirable traits._

_Loud. Ridiculous. Egotistical. Terrible taste in women._

_Blindly, irritatingly persistent and nauseatingly ambitious when it came to getting what she wanted, except when it came to her high school romances, apparently._

_God, why do I even fucking care? Let her chase after Finn Hudson and screw around with Santana Lopez. Let her stagnate and ruin her chances. What do I care?_

_She was startled out of her angry daydream by the sound of footsteps across the stage._

"_You're late," she said sourly as Rachel approached the piano._

...

"_Guess what I did," Rachel said excitedly, breezing into their kitchen on a Saturday morning._

_Quinn looked up from the paperwork in front of her. _

"_If you're referring to how you erased my documentary series on the ancient Mayan civilization that was on the History Channel this week, I noticed that already."_

"_That's not what I was referring to."_

"_Oh? So what else did you do?" Quinn asked, turning back to her laptop._

"_Wait, are you doing money things right now?" Rachel asked, just noticing the bank statements and investment portfolio notebooks spread out across the kitchen table._

"_Isn't that what I always do on Saturday mornings?"_

"_Oh. Um, we can talk about this later," Rachel said, attempting to turn and vanish from Quinn's sight before she could be questioned further._

"_Rachelll," Quinn called out sternly. _

_Rachel turned and shuffled sheepishly back into the kitchen._

"_What did you buy?"_

"_I. . . might have . . . not been able to pass up a really great deal on plane tickets."_

"_Rachel! To where?"_

"_JFK to Vegas, two weeks from yesterday," she said, pressing clasped hands to her lips. "But they were super cheap, Quinn! And when's the last time we got away for a weekend, just the two of us? Plus . . . you know we always have a good time in hotel room, don't we?"_

_Even with one eye on their credit card statement, Quinn couldn't help but smile._

"_You know, you're the reason we end up eating peanut butter and jelly the last few days of the month, every single month," she said._

"_I'm worth it," Rachel proclaimed hopefully, sweeping across the room to plant herself in Quinn's lap. _

_...  
><em>

_Even if her mind weren't going a thousand miles a minute, Rachel's tossing and turning would have been keeping Quinn from falling asleep._

"_Are you awake?" Rachel finally asked, her voice small._

"_Yeah," Quinn said. She rolled onto her side to face Rachel, brushing the hair out of her eyes. Her face was a little older, her eyes a little more tired than the young girl Quinn had fallen in love with. Still beautiful, though. _

"_Quinn, this is really scary," Rachel said. She laid the palms of her hands against her softly rounding belly._

"_I know," Quinn said, laying her arm protectively over Rachel's chest. "But the doctor says you're both perfect." _

"_No, not just being pregnant. . . everything."_

"_Well," Quinn said, kissing Rachel's cheek, "THIS doctor says everything is perfect."_

_Rachel smiled. "I appreciate that, Dr. Fabray, but you're not a baby doctor. And you can't tell me you're not a little scared."_

"_I think we're supposed to be a little scared," Quinn said, intertwining her fingers with Rachel's against her stomach. "It means we're doing it right."_

...

The song ended, and the last scene of the show was Robert leaning forward to finally blow out his birthday candles to make a wish. He finally wanted something, wanted someone.

As the stage went dark, Quinn felt a choking noise gurgle from her throat.

Happily, it was drowned out by the applause that rose from the crowd. The New Directions leapt to their feet as the lights came up halfway and curtain call began. Everyone except Santana, who was rummaging in her purse for tissues to wipe away the mascara that was streaking down her cheeks.

As she joined the rest of the audience in a standing ovation she turned to Quinn, who hadn't bothered with her own smeared mascara.

"I'm going to fucking kill Rachel Berry," she muttered, as Kurt and Blaine threw roses onto the stage at Rachel's feet.

After the show, they joined the throngs of theatergoers in the lobby in waiting for the cast to exit their dressing rooms to offer their congratulations. Quinn wandered among the patrons, nursing a headache, trying to feel less like a stunned bird who'd just unwittingly flown into a closed window.

"Dude, how hot were the actresses who played all those old married ladies?" Puck asked Finn. "I gotta find out if they've got swimming pools. Maybe I can dip into the Findlay market someday, if you know what I'm saying."

A few feet away, Kurt and Blaine discussed Raul Esparza in hushed, reverent tones.

On benches outside the ladies room, Brittany comforted Santana.

"I mean, he just sings that song about letting somebody into your soul, and then the lights come up? What kind of bullshit is that?"

"But it's okay, Santana, because he's happy now that he finally made a wish!"

Quinn eventually came to rest leaning against a wall near the ticketing window. When Rachel finally entered the lobby, their friends showered her with flowers, balloons, and cards. Rachel bent to sign programs for little kids, and gave hugs freely to old ladies.

As she got closer, the surreal atmosphere of the night only deepened for Quinn. Rachel's stage makeup was startling and stark, her lips and cheeks bright red, dark black lines defining her eyes.

Quinn hung back, letting Rachel absorb all the thank yous and congratulations. By the time Rachel approached her, the lobby was nearly empty of patrons; even most of their friends had departed. Santana nodded at Quinn as she and Brittany exited the theater, giving Rachel and Quinn near privacy in the corner of the lobby.

Quinn handed Rachel her seventeenth bundle of flowers.

"Thank you," Rachel said, taking them. "So what did you think?"

"I thought you and the show were both rather brilliant," Quinn said, trying to smile warmly, still adjusting to Rachel's alien appearance.

"Really?"

"Of course. It was so amazing seeing you up there, Rachel."

"The show is pretty intense, right?" Rachel asked with a smile. "Looks like your mascara is a little smudged."

"It wasn't what I was expecting," Quinn agreed, running her finger across her eyelid. "I thought musicals were supposed to be light-hearted and fluffy."

Rachel shrugged. "Sondheim."

"Well, Santana is a wreck."

Rachel smiled again. "I know. I would have put money on it. But it's a good thing, you know. I think you can't be moved by this show unless you really get what it's like to love somebody, the good parts and the bad parts."

"I thought the second act would be about Bobby picking one of his three girlfriends to marry. But I was completely wrong. It was about how he had to open himself up to it, first. Love, I mean. It was really beautiful, actually. I feel like. . . I feel like I can relate, a little."

"Yeah," Rachel said. Her smile faded and she looked away from Quinn.

"Anyway, I'm really proud of you, Rachel," Quinn said, and leaned in to give her a hug.

Rachel stepped backwards. "Quinn, don't," she said.

Quinn froze. "Don't?"

"You know, this night isn't about you," Rachel said.

"Of – of course not. I know that. I'm not making it about me, am I?"

"You're making it about us."

"No, Rachel, I promise – I was just trying to congratulate you."

"You were talking about love. And you can't keep finding excuses for us to spend time together, Quinn, like that book and these flowers. I shouldn't be alone here with you. This was a mistake and I'm not comfortable, so… so I think we should just stop."

"Wait, stop what?"

"I can't do this with you anymore, Quinn. It's too confusing."

"But. . .why?" Quinn asked. "I thought we were doing okay with seeing each other once in a while."

"You need to ask me why?" Rachel asked. "Quinn, maybe I need to remind you of something. What we had – you broke it. Do you not remember that? You abandoned me, and you had sex with someone else before I'd even stopped crying over you. You were mean, and emotionally distant, and I may not have been the best girlfriend, but you can't just give me a half-assed apology and a paper about religion, beautifully written though it may be, and think it earns you a second chance. We were fucked up together Quinn, and there's nothing to suggest it would be any different this time."

"But I . . . what about therapy?" Quinn whispered.

"You said yourself it wasn't helping."

"No, that was. . . I was just being pessimistic, Rachel. It's hard and I hate it, but just the other day I was talking to him about coming out someday."

"Look, I'm thrilled that you're making progress, Quinn, I am. I'm just not sure that while you work out your issues that I'll be anything other than a punching bag."

Quinn covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Okay, I know. I don't blame you. Rachel, I don't know what you think I'm asking you for, because I haven't really asked you for anything. But I'm just going to leave. I'll just go."

Quinn turned away from Rachel without any further words between them. By the time she reached the sidewalk, she was running. She crossed in front of the theater and turned right into the parking garage.

"Level H5. H5, H5, H5," she repeated, trying to calm herself, to stave off the tears, as the elevator took her up to where they had parked before the show.

Quinn could see right away that Santana's car was not among the few stragglers scattered across the nearly-empty lot.

"Where are you?" she asked angrily, when Santana picked up her phone.

"What do you mean? We're about ten minutes outside of Findlay."

"You're WHERE?"

"Wait, did you need a ride? I thought you'd be riding home with Rachel."

"Fuck!" Quinn exclaimed, and it rang out across the garage. "Rachel and I are not a couple, Santana. You can't just assume things and leave people stranded!"

"Okay, Jesus, chill the fuck out, Quinn. I'm turning around right now, all right? Just wait in front of the theater, I'll pull up to the curb in like fifteen minutes."

"Fuck," Quinn said, sniffling, as she hung up the phone. She took the stairs down to street level, and leaned against a wall next to a poster featuring Rachel Berry's smiling face, and waited there alone.

**...  
><strong>

**Friday, September 2 / 9:05pm**

The next night was the end-of-summer party at Trinity United Methodist Church. Quinn, Santana, and Brittany joined the other counselors and volunteers, most of the kids from Summer Bible School, and their families for a barbeque, bonfire, and sing-a-long.

Quinn had never been more grateful for a church event in her life. She didn't know what she would have done had she not been around a group of people today.

"She must be so tired," Quinn said to Dottie's mother. "She had a super long day."

"She's practically asleep," Dottie's mother said, caressing the little girl's back. "D, do you want to wake up and say goodbye to Miss Quinn?"

Dottie lifted her head from her mother's shoulder.

"Bye Miss Quinn," she said sleepily.

"Bye, Dottie," Quinn said. "You be good in school this year, okay? I'll see you next summer."

"Yes ma'am," Dottie said, and laid her head back down.

"Thanks, Quinn," Dottie's mother said. "She'll miss you."

Quinn kissed the back of Dottie's hand and watched them go.

"Hey, don't throw your crap on the ground! God, you're such a hooligan!"

Quinn supposed this was Santana saying goodbye to Cristofer. He took off running toward the picnic tables, and Santana followed him.

Brittany sat on a bench next to the remnants of the fire, half-heartedly toasting a marshmallow.

"Brittany, you okay?"

"Yeah, just. All of these goodbyes are making me sad."

"Yeah. Me too."

"It makes me think about this time next summer, when we all have to say goodbye to each other. I can't believe I'm going to have to say goodbye to Mike and Tina and Artie, and you and Rachel. . ."

Brittany's gaze traveled to Santana, who was near the jungle gym, trying to reign in not only Cristofer, but his brother, too.

"So what do you think she's going to do?" Quinn asked.

"I don't know."

Quinn sighed, and sat down next to her. Brittany handed her a stick with a marshmallow already attached.

"I think she means it when she says she liked Toledo. But I know she never would've thought of going there if I hadn't told her about it. I hate to think of being the thing that holds Santana back from doing what she wants. Sometimes I feel selfish, like maybe I should have given USC a chance."

"You can't compromise what your heart is set on, either, Brittany. That would be just as wrong."

"Maybe we were always going to have to let them go, huh, Quinn?"

"Rachel and Santana?"

"Yeah, like, if you and Rachel had stayed together, next year she'd be going to New York, or wherever. Maybe it was always going to be like this."

Quinn's marshmallow caught fire and fell into the dirt. She poked at the ashes at the edge of the fire with her stick.

"Maybe it was," she said. "I mean, you're right. I would break up with Rachel before I would let myself hold her back from being onstage, especially after yesterday. But take it from me, Brittany. At least you and Santana have each other now. I'd give a lot to have another year, even if at the end of it I had to say goodbye to her."

"Quinn, I think I need to go talk to Santana. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Go on."

...

"These kids are a fucking—sorry, freaking—pen full of piglets, I swear to Christ," Santana grumbled as she bent to pick up the scattered toys and clear plastic cups left behind after the party.

"Did Cristofer leave?"

"Yeah, you just missed him."

Brittany smiled.

"He's in love with you, you know."

"Brittany, he's seven."

"I fell in love when I was seven."

"Of course you did."

"I'm so proud of you, Santana. You've been so good with him, and like, all the kids. Remember when you were afraid to even go in the building?"

"I was not."

"Well, remember when you were afraid of boogers?"

"Shit, I'm still afraid of that. We're not out of here yet."

"Santana, I want you to promise me something."

Santana stood and turned to look at Brittany, her arms full of discarded plastic cups. "What?"

"I think," Brittany said, "Santana, I think you can do anything you want. Even things you're afraid to do at first. So I want you to promise me that you'll go to college where you truly want to go. Promise me you won't go somewhere just for your mother. And not for me, either."

The corners of Santana's lips curled downward.

"Santana, you understand what I'm saying, right?"

Santana turned her back on Brittany.

"We can't talk about this here."

"Then put that stuff down," Brittany said, "And come with me."

Brittany took Santana's hand and led her over the hill to the parking lot.

"Talk to me here," Brittany said as they closed the car doors behind them. "What's wrong?"

"Are we done?" Santana said. "After this year, are we done?"

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Because you're pushing me toward California."

"Santana, that's not true. I'm pushing you to be happy."

"What would make me happy is to know my girlfriend wants me with her thirteen months from now."

"Santana, I'm the one who asked you to go to Toledo in the first place, remember? Of course I want you with me. But, not if it's your second choice."

"You know what I think? I think you've never loved me as much as I love you, so you don't care as much if we go our separate ways in a year."

Brittany, who had been comforting Santana with a gentle hand on her shoulder, withdrew it and turned away.

"I'm so tired of this, Santana. You always change my words to mean things I didn't say. Just because I'm not jealous and possessive like you doesn't mean I don't love you."

"Jealous and possessive? You know what? Fuck you, because I have been putting up with you hanging out with your fucking ex-boyfriend for weeks now."

"And sending Quinn to spy on us."

Santana stared at her hands on the steering wheel.

"I don't know how many times," Brittany added. "I only saw her once, but maybe she hid better the other times."

"Jesus, Quinn is a terrible spy. So why didn't you tell me Artie had a new girlfriend, huh Brittany? Was it because you _wanted_ me to be jealous?"

"No, I didn't tell you because he's not telling people yet. He's not sure it's going to work out and he met her in a weird way, so he's taking his time. I was being a good friend."

"And not such a great girlfriend. You know what would make me happy? If you put ME first, sometime."

"Santana, I do put you first! With things that are actually important, like college. And you know what, Santana, it's funny how you're always on my case about Artie, but you're the only one of us who cheated this summer."

"Is that why you're pushing me away? Because I kissed Rachel? Or because I sent Quinn to make sure you weren't about to break my fucking heart, AGAIN?"

"No, but as long as we're talking about that, don't forget that you broke mine first."

Brittany's insides burned. Why was it that every time she tried to tell Santana something she thought was good for them, it wound up being a fight? Every time she tried to be a grown up and make the right decision, it wound up coming out bad.

Sometimes it was hard to remember through the anger that nothing made Santana lash out harder than scaring her.

Santana was scared. That's what Brittany had to fix.

"Santana—"

She was interrupted by a loud thud on the driver's side window behind Santana's head.

"What the fuck, Quinn?" Santana said, whipping her head around.

"I'm sorry," Quinn said, wide-eyed and breathless on the other side of the window. "Guys, I'm really sorry, but Santana – can I borrow your car? I need to get to Findlay before Rachel's show is over."

**...  
><strong>

**Monday, August 29 / 3:15pm**

"I never had a problem with gay people, even though I was probably supposed to. I just never thought I'd be one."

Dr. Reese nodded. "Sometimes it's easier to be understanding towards others than it is toward ourselves."

"Christianity teaches you that," Quinn said. "If you listen in church, there's all this talk about loving your neighbor, and 'judge not' when it comes to other people. But you're supposed to try to be perfect yourself, and feel guilty if you're not."

"You sound a bit disillusioned."

Quinn shrugged.

"Do you still attend church services regularly, Quinn?"

"Every Sunday morning. Then pancake breakfast at 11. I missed a few this summer, but I usually go."

"Do you go because you like to? Does your mother impose it on you?"

"I suppose it's always been a little of both. But, there are a lot of nice people there. My mom's friends and the pastor were actually pretty understanding about my mistake with the pregnancy. I mean, after I spent nine months apologizing, of course."

"Do your recent revelations about your sexuality make you feel uncomfortable when you're there?"

Quinn couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. Like, she recognized that the question was his way of opening up conversation, but how stupid could you get?

"Well . . .yeah."

"So what makes you continue to attend? Spirituality? Community?"

"It's just. . . normal. It's normal to go there."

"And that's comforting."

Quinn nodded once.

"I think many people attend services for that reason."

"Well, it's not like I'm not a Christian," she added. "I don't go just to hang out with my mother's friends."

He waited for her to continue.

"I read some things this summer that made me feel stupid for being my religion. The history of the church, you know? None of it is like they tell you in Bible school."

"How is it, then?"

Quinn stared at the wall above his head.

"Arbitrary. Some of it is arbitrary. But, I need it."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Nobody understands it, though. Rachel, Santana. They think, why don't I just leave if I don't fit in with my church."

"You should feel free to make any changes at your own pace, Quinn. Nobody can dictate when it's right for you to do that but you."

"Yeah," she said, gazing out the window for a minute. "It's like . . . punctuated equilibrium."

He gave her a half smile. "Like evolution?"

She gave him a half smile back for knowing what it meant. She only let it linger on her face for a second. She didn't want him to be too proud of himself.

"Yeah. I think that's how change happens with people. It's not necessarily this gradual, continuous thing," she said. "For a long time nothing changes, and then all of a sudden there's some kind of disaster. Metaphorically, of course. But there's some kind of force, and then—" she clapped one hand down on the other.

"Evolution happens. Change occurs," he finished for her.

"Santana said that's how it was when she came out to her mother. I mean, she didn't say it in terms of evolution, but same idea. So maybe it'll happen to me, too."

"Maybe what will happen to you?"

Quinn's shoulders slumped. Weren't therapists supposed to be perceptive?

"What happened to Santana," she clarified with a sigh. "How one day she knew she had to."

Quinn's therapist smiled and twirled his pen end over end. She knew that smile – it meant she had said something that excited him; she already recognized this air of carefully detached hopefulness. Something encouraging yet vague was about to come out of his mouth in 3, 2, 1. . .

"It must be helpful that you have friends who are going through the same things as you."

Quinn stared at him for a beat. Sometimes, he really didn't get it. She shook her head in frustration.

"You disagree?" he said, and she noted with satisfaction that his smile became approximately fifty percent smaller. "You don't feel grateful to have their support?"

"What I'm saying is, they are not going through the same things as me." She leaned back in her comfy leather chair. "It's different for everyone."

She almost felt bad. Rachel was probably never this much of a bitch in therapy. Quinn looked down at her hands, finding her fingers nervously massaging one another.

_You wanted to come here, Quinn. Say something productive._

"I—" she started, and he practically vibrated with anticipation. "I am lucky, though," she finished, pushing each word reluctantly from her lips. She gazed out the window. "I suppose I know that."

His smile came back, and her sympathy waned.

"What makes you lucky, Quinn?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

She knew wasn't going to get away with it, but it bought her some time.

"Quinn, after four sessions, I know you better than that."

"Technically, it's only been three and a third."

"I'll rephrase. After a limited number of sessions, I suspect that you must have some idea how to back up your statement, or you wouldn't have spoken at all. What makes you lucky?"

Quinn winced and looked up at the ceiling, bracing for the mental anguish the next word was about to bring. She hated therapy so, incredibly much. Like, really.

"Santana," she sighed.

Of all the smiles in her therapist's repertoire, this had to be the most annoying one she had ever fucking seen.

He nodded his head once. "So Santana's support _is_ important to you."

"If it qualifies as support when someone hasn't punched you in over a month."

She felt guilty as soon as she said it, as soon as she minimized things. Flashes of Santana's charcoal gray walls, blurred by tears in the blue-tint of early morning light, played in her mind's eye.

"_You can't drive like this, Q. Just lie down, okay?" _

"_I should go, but. . . I haven't slept yet."_

When she zoned back into the moment she found Dr. Reese looking at her with mild disapproval.

"Okay," she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Santana is nearly always intolerable. But once in a while she says things that maybe I need to hear. It's probably usually by accident, but it happens."

"Sometimes honesty can feel brutal," Dr. Reese opined. He gave her another little smile, and now he was waiting for her to go on. Even she knew this was the oldest therapy trick in the book. She probably could have waited him out if she wanted to.

"She and Brittany both do that."

"Brittany – you said she was the young lady Santana was dating?"

Quinn nodded.

"Yes. With her it's completely different. When Santana says things, it's usually because she's found something wrong with you and wants to point it out. Brittany sandwiches her real life thoughts in between humming a song she made up about ponies and telling me she has a business meeting with her cat."

Dr. Reese smiled again, using his eyes this time. "Maybe I should get her in here next."

"Don't do that to yourself," Quinn smirked. "Although there might be some kind of Nobel Prize in it for you if you can figure out her mind."

He chuckled. "Well, I'd like to hear more about them both the next time we meet. But Quinn, before we run out of time – we haven't talked about Rachel in a couple of weeks."

Quinn chewed on the inside of her cheek. Well, that took the mirth out of the air.

"Have you spoken to her lately?" he asked quietly.

"Actually, yes," Quinn said, lifting her chin a little. "I had coffee with her last week."

"Good for you for reaching out. How did it go?"

_Rachel. I'm sorry if I ruined your summer._

_That's kind of a strange way to put it, Quinn. Like you broke our vacation plans, or something. _

_Well, I mean. . . I did break our plans._

Quinn shrugged. "We weren't there very long. I gave her my research paper to read."

"A paper for school?"

"No, the thirty-page research paper I wrote just for kicks."

He scowled and cocked his head to the side.

"Sorry."

"What's the paper about?"

"Religion and homosexuality. Summer homework for one of my AP classes. I. . . don't know why I gave it to her. That was ridiculous."

"It sounds like you want her to know how much you've learned this summer."

"Yeah, well." Quinn leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and pressed the palms of her hands together. "I haven't heard back from her. She's probably too busy with rehearsal to read it."

_Or she doesn't care._

"The important thing for now is that you reached out, Quinn. I think that's a great step forward, and at a manageable pace."

"Mmm," Quinn said. She watched as her left nails sank into the fabric of her jeans. "I suppose. But it's always a manageable pace until the next metaphorical disaster."

"Maybe you shouldn't use such a negative word as 'disaster,' Quinn. Wouldn't a biologist call it . . .'selective pressure,' maybe? Whether it's external or internal, something is pushing you to evolve. Right?"

He actually winked at her when he said that. It was official – extended metaphors made him entirely too happy.

"If I may offer some advice?" he asked, and waited.

_Well you're only my therapist. I think it would be about time._

She nodded.

"Do your best to recognize those moments of growth when they're happening, Quinn. Don't be afraid of them. Embrace them. After all, I'm sure you remember what happens to species that fail to evolve."

**...  
><strong>

**Friday, September 2 / 9:35pm **

"Can't this wait until later tonight?" Santana asked, trying to conceal the quiver in her voice.

"No."

"Can't we drive you to your house to get your own car?" Brittany asked.

"There's no time. I'm sorry, but you guys need to either get out or start driving."

Santana and Brittany exchanged a look.

"Ugh. Just get the fuck in," Santana said, tilting her head toward the back seat. "We all know I'll get you there way faster."

...

"What are you even doing?" Santana asked once on the drive.

"Finishing a conversation," was all Quinn would say.

...

So for the second night in a row, Quinn found herself standing around at the Findlay PAC as the post-show crowds dwindled to nearly zero. When Rachel finally emerged from the building, it was with almost the entirety of her cast, amid a lively racket.

Exiting out the double doors of the theater, Rachel froze for an instant when she saw Quinn standing off to the side, almost in the shadows. At first, Quinn felt a sickening drop in her stomach as it looked like Rachel might decide not to acknowledge her at all.

"I'll just be a few minutes, Bradley," Rachel said, gesturing toward Quinn. "I'll meet you at the car."

She strode toward Quinn. "What are you doing here?" she asked, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Quinn's confidence, which had been rock solid up until about twelve seconds ago, sputtered and cut out.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked meekly.

"I'm listening, Quinn. But my ride is waiting for me, so."

Quinn cleared her throat.

"I came . . . I came to ask you what you're so afraid of, Rachel."

"Pardon me?"

"I realized something tonight. You had weeks to get mad at me, to blow up in my face the way you did last night. We've hung out together a few times now. At Santana's, at Bible school, that one time tutoring. Things have been fine. Then last night, in the middle of a really happy moment, everything changed."

"Yes, well, I don't think you get to make commentary on people's mood swings, Quinn."

"Well, maybe that's fair. Except, this wasn't a mood swing. You're freaked out about something."

"Look, Quinn, what is your point?" Rachel asked, shrugging. "I've had a difficult summer and a highly emotional week. I'm allowed to freak out."

"But what is it, though?" Quinn pressed. "It's something recent, like about my paper, or the fact that I'm going to therapy, or that we hung out and had coffee together, just the two of us. It's like you got more upset when things got a little better."

"Okay, fine," Rachel said. "Maybe I did. Maybe it's because I'm trying to move on, did you ever think of that? Maybe one moment I'm just starting to think I can, and that we can see each other from time to time and it'll be fine. And then the next, you won't leave me alone, talking about coming out to your therapist and about the character in my show opening himself up to love. It's like you've changed overnight or something."

"Mmm. They say hitting rock bottom will do that."

"Be that as it may, I still don't know where that leaves me."

"And I don't know what you mean by that."

"Well, I don't know. For one thing, I haven't told _my_ therapist I'm bisexual. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"It's not like a bingo card, Rachel. You don't have to tell every single person as fast as possible."

Rachel's shoulders slumped. She shook her head, tired. "I don't think you realize what a big deal that is, Quinn, what you did. All the things I know I need to work on, my therapist is the person I tell. It's like, 'okay, here it is. I have this issue.'"

"It makes it real," Quinn summarized. "Oh my God. You're afraid to come out."

"I'm not afraid," Rachel said, lifting her chin defensively. "I'm not afraid to be different, the way Santana is. I'm not afraid of losing my support network like you are. I'm not afraid of homophobes, or discrimination, or gossip behind my back. It sucks, but it's nothing I haven't dealt with before. It's just.. . Quinn, do you remember all of our summer plans? If you think about it, we accomplished barely any of them."

"Rachel, most of those plans were unrealistic. You know that. But we're tutoring and volunteering. We did outreach before Pride."

"I didn't care about any of it," Rachel said, her voice rising in pitch and volume with every sentence. "Not the same way I would have a year ago. Now it's September and I haven't started a single college application. And this week, I barely cared about this show – my FIRST professional show. A SONDHEIM show. So, let's see what we have. Suddenly I'm bisexual, I'm in love with a girl who's growing up into this complicated woman that I barely understand on a good day, and I'm so distracted from everything I used to care about that I don't even recognize myself."

Rachel's eyes filled with tears.

"You asked me, Quinn, when you first got here, what I'm afraid of? Well, there's your answer. I'm afraid I won't even be _me_ anymore, if I'm with you."

A smile touched the corners of Quinn's lips.

"Well. I guess I have no idea what that's like, do I?" she asked gently.

Rachel let out a noise that was half laugh and half sob.

"So you're suggesting we can be strangers to ourselves together? I'm not sure how comforting that is. Or how wise."

"I'm not suggesting anything, really," Quinn said. "Look, Rachel, I know I got a little intense last night. Your show really moved me. In fact, if you knew some of the things that had been running through my head, you would admire my restraint, actually. But I'm not stupid, and I know we have a lot to fix. But all I can think about right now, Rachel, is that if you and I can stand here and talk like this . . . that there's something here that we can't abandon."

Rachel closed her eyes and sent fresh tears down her cheeks.

"I need some time to think, okay?" she sniffled. "I'm really confused right now, and I'm exhausted, and I still have one more show tomorrow."

"You're right," Quinn said. "You have to focus on that. This is me backing off."

"Yeah," Rachel said, nodding. "I should go. Brad's been waiting forever, so."

"Right. Break a leg tomorrow, all right?"

"Thanks, Quinn. I guess I'll see you at school on Tuesday."

"I guess so," Quinn said, and waved goodbye to Rachel as she disappeared into the shadows of the parking garage.

**...  
><strong>

**Friday, September 2 / 10:20pm**

"I'm sorry for hurting you. For sending Quinn and not trusting you, all that bull shit."

"It's okay, Santana. I know why you did it."

They stared out the front window at the empty Findlay street, Rachel's theater the only thing lit up for blocks.

"I really don't know what to do."

"About college?"

"Yeah."

"I know. Santana?"

"Hmm."

"You don't have anything to worry about, even if you go to California."

"How do you figure that one, Pollyanna?"

"You don't realize how much people love you. Me, or anyone. You don't realize people aren't going to forget about you."

"Brittany, I'm a lot of things, but well-loved ain't one of them."

"You're wrong about that, though. Santana, do you ever think about how you're three different people's best friend?"

"Britt, what are you smoking and why aren't you sharing?"

"No, for real. Like, okay, obviously you're mine. That's one. But you're Rachel's and Quinn's too."

"Okay, whatever," Santana said. "Rachel has Kurt, and Mercedes. Quinn has. . . you know, Jesus."

"But Santana, whose room do they show up in whenever they really, truly need someone? Whose bed, even?"

Santana didn't say anything.

"You're a really good friend, Santana."

"Knock it off, all right? You're really fucking with my self-image right now."

Brittany smiled. "Just be proud of it, Santana."

"Well, I don't know what this has to do with anything, though. If I go to California, I'm leaving them too. Quinn's staying in Ohio, Rachel's probably going all the way to New York."

"It has to do with you trusting that you're good enough to keep the people you love in your life. Which you are. So promise me," Brittany said, holding up her right pinky finger. "Promise me that you'll go to college where YOU want to go."

"Fine," Santana said, and hooked her pinky begrudgingly into Brittany's, then yanked it away. "Fine."

"Good. Hey look, Quinn's coming back," Brittany said, pointing out the window. "Look, it's your best friend Quinn." She poked her finger into Santana's ribs, tickling her.

"Fuck you," Santana said, grinning and batting her away. "And where the fuck is Rachel?"

"Where the fuck is Rachel?" she demanded to Quinn as she huffed into the car.

"She had a ride already. I didn't come here to kidnap her, Santana."

"So we literally drove all the way here so you could finish a conversation?"

"I told you."

"And you did it anyway," Brittany said with a smile, elbowing Santana.

"I hate you both," Santana said. "I should make y'all hitchhike. Q, this conversation better have been about what you and Berry are getting me as a thank you present for putting up with your drama queen asses all summer."

"I will agree to that if you'll shut up about it."

"I told you that always works on you."

Quinn sighed out the darkened window. She settled backwards into the seat of the car, and smiled, just a little.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **So, this is it! With this chapter, I'm officially retiring not only this story but also this universe, almost exactly a year after I started writing it.

I need to officially dedicate the whole thing to my girlfriend. I couldn't and wouldn't have done this without her. She was the one, after all, who turned to me last February and said, "You know, I can so see Santana trying to take Rachel's virginity just to prove she could."

Since then, she has put up with a year of me not only hovering over her shoulder as she read each chapter, pestering her with "What? What's funny?" but also me saying things like, "Sweetie, can you handle [insert household chore]? If I don't get time to write tonight I'm going to go fucking crazy." And then when I thank her and promise to make it up to her she says, "It's okay. It makes you happy, right?"

In life, it just doesn't get better than that. And now I need to go clean the house, because it is so my turn.

But first, I also need to acknowledge my sometimes-beta, my fanon-compatibility consultant, and my calmer of fanfic neuroses, Ms. "Sourrific" Amy. Thank you for putting up with me, even when I know sometimes the last thing you wanted to talk about was Glee. ;)

Finally, thank you to everyone who has read part or all of this story, especially if you took the time to share your thoughts. You guys helped keep me going. And while I know there is a lot of story left to write for Rachel, Santana, Quinn, and Brittany, I hope you'll find the conclusion to their summer a satisfying place for me to leave them.

* * *

><p><em>to be lonely is a habit, like smoking or taking drugs<em>

_and I've quit them both, but man was it rough_

* * *

><p><strong>Sunday, September 4  3:30pm**

"I still don't see the difference."

"That's because you're not listening to me, Santana."

"I'm listening to you just fine, Professor Dumbledwarf. You're not making any damn sense. How can an answer be 'too right'?"

"Not too _right_, Santana," Rachel said, forcing herself to remain patient. "Too _strong_."

"I thought you said strong was good."

"It is, unless it's _too_ strong."

Santana threw her pencil across the room. "Why do you hate me right now?"

"I don't hate you. Look, why don't we take a break from reading passages and work on vocabulary or something?"

"Actually, Berry, as long as we're taking a break there's something I need to ask you about."

"Okay. So what is it?"

"Okay so, my parents are having this big Labor Day cookout tomorrow, for our family and the neighbors, or whatever. It's pretty much a huge pain in my ass, but Britt and her family are coming. I was wondering if you wanted to like, come to it. And bring your dads."

Rachel put a hand to her heart. "Santana, I'm so touched. What brought this on?"

"Well I was thinking we could alert the local media and go for some kind of award for diversity in Western Ohio. So you know, I'm trying to get the black and Jewish boxes checked off. Once I factor in Brittany I just have to invite the Chang-Changs and Figgins, and I figure I'll have it in the bag at that point."

"Lovely as that sentiment is, Santana, I think my dads are going boating up at the lake tomorrow."

"Oh. All right, it's cool, I'll get Mercedes. You'll still show, right?"

"Sure, but - come on, what's this really about, Santana?"

"All right," Santana said, rolling her eyes. "I thought it might be cool if. . . my parents could meet your dads. They're like a gay, interracial couple, right?"

Rachel smiled. "Indeed they are. That's an amazing idea, Santana, and I'm sure they'd be honored. I'll have them set up a dinner party, stat."

"Word. Thanks, Berry."

"Do you think if you invited Brittany to said dinner party we could ensure that she wouldn't talk about how you and I have slept together? I'm really not ready for that conversation."

"You know I can't promise that."

"Guess we'll have to risk it, then."

"Should we get Quinn there too?" Santana asked. "I'm not sure she's ever met functional parents before."

Rachel shook her head. "Um, I think that's a brilliant way to ensure the evening is laced with awkward tension."

"Not if you get over yourselves and patch it up before then. Like, I don't get it, Berry. She wants you, you want her. Her crazy is under control for the time being. . .what's the hold up?"

"It's not that simple, Santana."

"Right. Yeah, drag out the angst, drama queen, while the school year ticks away."

"For your information, it's not about drama - I have real reservations about it. Quinn needs a lot, okay? She might need more than I have to give."

"Sooo, you're telling me Rachel Berry is too lazy to have a girlfriend? Well, news flash, Berry: bitches be a ton of work, okay? You ain't so low-maintenance yourself."

"I have dreams, Santana. I can't afford to get too distracted by a complicated relationship."

"Oh. Right, I'm sorry, I forgot that love isn't part of Rachel Berry's dreams. My mistake. Cause relationships have never been important to you."

"Okay. Fine. I will grant that you might have a point, Santana, but you're not being fair. There's a lot to think about."

"Well, I'll tell you what I think," Santana continued. "I think that for however good it feels to be onstage, it feels even better to have someone waiting for you with flowers afterwards, someone standing there all proud of you with a stupid fucking grin like the one plastered to Quinn's face the other night. Think about it, Berry - who are you going to thank in your Tony acceptance speech for standing by you while you clawed and kicked your way to the top? Your agent and your lawyer?"

Rachel's nose turned a little red, and as she smiled, her eyes glistened. "You know, you are such a jerk," she said, shaking her head at Santana. "You really are."

"Mmhmm, you're welcome. And you can repay me by making some GD sense about these questions this time. I need an 1800 before USC will even consider me."

"Yeah, okay," Rachel said, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve and handing Santana a new pencil. "You're right. Let's try again."

**...**

**Sunday, September 4 / 6:24pm**

Brittany set down her glossy white bag from the Apple Store and helped Artie wheel up the ramp to his front porch.

"Thanks for your help picking out my new laptop," she said. "It was super nice of your dad to drive us to the mall. Tell him I said thanks again, okay?"

"Are you sure you don't want to come inside? You can tell him yourself over dinner. Come onnnn, it's meat loaf night."

"Thanks Artie, but I told my mom to come pick me up here at 6:30. Anyway, I'm excited to go home and try out my computer."

"Are you sure that's all it is, Brittany? Cause, you've been acting a little weird today."

"Yeah, I know," Brittany said, hanging her head. "It's because I didn't want to tell you this." She took a deep breath. "I think that you and I shouldn't hang out anymore. Especially doing boyfriend-girlfriend stuff like family dinners."

Artie's face went blank, which Brittany had learned meant he was mad. "Did Santana tell you to say that?" he asked.

"Santana doesn't make my decisions for me, Artie," Brittany reminded him. "She didn't ask me to stop, but she's my girlfriend, and I have to do it for her anyway."

"But, there's nothing going on between you and me any more. No offense girl, but I be maaad over you."

Brittany smiled a little. "No, I know. But, Artie, I started hanging out with you so I could make sure we got closure, and that was hard for Santana but she understood. It's not fair of me to take advantage and keep doing it when I know it upsets her. I have to start putting her first if we're going to make it through college together, especially if we go different places. Plus like, I'm sure Janine wouldn't like it if she knew you were hanging out with me all the time."

"I suppose," he said. "So what does this mean for Glee Club stuff, and decathalon? Can we not do that anymore?"

"That stuff's totally still fair game. We can do group stuff. Maybe someday even you and Janine and me and Santana can all go on a double date."

"Um, Brittany, I know I got used to hanging out with Mike and Tina, but I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for that."

"Maybe just the group stuff then."

"Maybe."

"So, thanks for agreeing to hang out with me this summer," Brittany said.

"I'm really glad you sent me that message, Brittany. It's been fun remembering how to be friends."

Brittany's mom honked from the curb, and Brittany bent to hug Artie.

"It totally has," Brittany said, and turned to go. "Okay. See you in school."

Artie waved as Brittany slid into the passenger seat of her mom's waiting car.

...

**Saturday, June 25 / 1:12pm**

"Is it easier with Quinn, cause she's a girl? I heard girls are supposed to be better at listening and dealing with feelings and all that."

"You're kidding, right?" Rachel asked, leaning forward over her coffee to bring her disbelieving expression closer to Finn. "You have met Quinn before, haven't you?"

Finn smiled a lopsided, uncomfortable grin. "I guess that might have been a stupid question, huh?"

Rachel swirled the coffee around in the bottom of her cup. "Quinn's the most complicated person I've ever met, let alone dated."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But you know, Rachel, I think if anyone can figure her out, it's you."

"That's sweet of you to say. A little naive, possibly, but sweet."

"I'm serious, though. Maybe you can make her happy, you know? Not like, Prom Queen happy, but for real happy."

"It's just that I feel like I'm doing exactly the opposite lately. Everything I try seems to fall completely flat."

"Maybe you're trying too hard," Finn said, shrugging.

"Too hard?"

"Yeah. I mean, no offense Rachel, but you can be a little. . . pushy. And Quinn's kinda used to calling the shots. Maybe if you both just relax a little and not push things to be perfect right away, it'll be easier."

Rachel sighed, and shifted in her chair in an attempt to relieve some of the tension that was creeping into her spine. Finn had no idea what he was talking about, obviously, because whatever problems he had had with Quinn, she was pretty sure they paled in comparison to her having to come to terms with being with a girl.

Still, he did know both of them pretty well, she had to admit that. Maybe he had a point.

"I'm pretty sure relaxing about Quinn goes against the demands of every cell in my being. But, I suppose I could try."

...

**Monday, September 5 / 8:32pm**

"What are you doing here?" Quinn spun around in her desk chair to face the door when she heard the knocking on the door frame.

"I cannot tell a lie," Frannie said, stepping across the threshold of the door. "Mom sent me. We were cleaning up after the picnic and BOOM. Massive guilt trip about how I never spend time with my little sister. Can I come in?"

"You're already in."

"Okay, that's not my fault," Frannie said, looking down. "My stomach tends to precede the rest of me by about four seconds nowadays. So what are you working on that got you out of cleanup duty?" she asked, nodding toward Quinn's computer screen.

"Final revisions of my summer homework. School starts tomorrow. So why does mom suddenly want you spending time with me?" Quinn asked as Frannie sank into her mattress with a groan.

"She wants me to find out if you're on drugs."

"What?"

"She didn't say it in so many words, but."

"I'm not on drugs."

"You had a few drinks at the wedding, huh?"

"So what?"

"A few bottles missing from mom's stash."

"What's your point?" Quinn said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I smoke pot, too - are you going to bust me? I'm a teenager, Frannie. It's not like you didn't do the same things."

"Sit down with me, Quinn." Frannie patted the spot next to her on the bed.

Quinn trudged heavily across her room and perched on the mattress a few feet away from her sister.

"Quinn, would you relax for a second? I want to tell you I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm seven months pregnant, you know. It's difficult. It's difficult to move, difficult to stop eating, incredibly difficult to tie your shoes."

"And?"

"The truth is, it's been difficult the whole way. There's the vomiting, which is not confined to the morning, by the way, which is really misleading. Then there are the cravings, the mood swings. I'm surprised my dear husband hasn't taken off in the middle of the night."

Quinn stared at her sister and waited for the point.

"Quinn, I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you went through it. It's hard enough when you're grown up and married and everyone is so happy for you. I can't imagine what you dealt with. Hiding it, feeling ashamed, not having anyone you could talk to. I should have been there for you, Quinn."

"I don't feel well," Quinn said, and launched herself out of the room and down the stairs.

"Damn it, Quinn! I hope you appreciate how much work this is!" Frannie called after her as she heaved herself to her feet and followed Quinn down the stairs and out to the front porch.

"The porch stairs? No mercy, huh?" Frannie said, lowering herself laboriously to sit next to Quinn.

"You don't have to do this," Quinn said. "Just because mom is afraid to talk to me herself."

"Cut her a break, Quinnie. She didn't have to talk for 25 years in this family, and now she has no clue what to do for you. She's really worried. She said you never leave your room any more. And you asked to go to therapy."

"Frannie, I appreciate that you're worried. You and mom. But I don't want to talk. Yes, I'm dealing with some things, but I'm dealing with it on my own."

Frannie nodded thoughtfully.

"Mmhmm. Is your friend Rachel helping you?"

Quinn's head snapped upward. "No."

"Is that the problem?" Frannie asked gently. "Quinn? Did you break up?"

Quinn's stomach dropped, and a tremor shook her hands in her lap.

"Who- who told you that?" she wheezed.

"Um, my eyes? I saw you together at the wedding and unlike the rest of our family, I'm not oblivious to reality."

"No. No, I brought her because Finn and I broke up. We're just friends."

"Okay," Frannie said, nodding. "We both know that you're lying, but if that's how you want to do this, that's fine. I'm trying to be here for you, but I'm not going to chase you around the house anymore."

Frannie put her hands on the top step and started to brace herself to push herself to her feet.

"Okay, wait," Quinn said, closing her eyes.

Frannie relaxed again. "So what happened?"

Quinn leaned forward and rested her forehead in her hands. She blinked and tears fell onto her lap.

"I panicked. Ruined it."

"Is it too late to fix it?"

Quinn shook her head, still resting in her hands. "I don't know."

"Quinn, do you remember my friend Becky from high school? She's gay."

"I had no idea," Quinn sniffled.

"Neither did I. And neither did she. At least, not until she was planning her wedding to her college boyfriend and found herself falling in love with the caterer. You're lucky to have figured it out so young. Anyway, they moved to Seattle together and never looked back."

"That's great for her," Quinn rasped. "I guess that must mean we all have happy endings."

"Quit being a smartass. You know what Becky told me? She said that being gay is the best thing that ever happened to her."

"That is seriously messed up, Frannie. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

"I know it's easy for me to say this, Quinn, but it makes perfect sense, actually. She says if she hadn't realized she was gay, she never would have had a reason to get out of her conservative little town and explore the world. She would have settled into a comfortable, boring life in Lima Heights and not known what she was missing."

"Mmm," was all Quinn would say.

"You're going to need to get out of here, Quinn," Frannie said, putting her hand on Quinn's leg.

"You need to get away from Mom, and especially Dad. Get away from that church and out of this town."

Quinn forced a laugh. "How?"

"Well, shit," Frannie said. "You're kind of smart. Go to college, or something. There are a thousand colleges you could get into, and a whole country out there that isn't Ohio State or Toledo."

Quinn rubbed her hands together in her lap, and said nothing.

"Anyway, Quinn, I'm sorry for not being there for you with this, either. Because I knew, Quinnie. I knew when you were twelve and I saw you kiss that little shit Santana Lopez in the treehouse, and I knew what you were doing with that Cafferty girl in the church basement that time I walked in there unannounced. I ignored it. But I won't anymore."

"Please don't tell mom," Quinn whispered.

"No worries, Quinnie," Frannie said, putting her arm around Quinn's shoulders. "I'll stick with the drugs thing."

"I much, much prefer that."

"I'm going to start calling you, all right? At least once a week. You and I should talk more anyway, right? Especially with mom and dad and the way things are. . . sisters don't get divorced. And I want my baby to know her aunt Quinn."

"It's a girl?" Quinn sniffled.

Frannie nodded, and Quinn circled her in a hug. And then, in the deepening summer twilight, a pair of headlights swept across them as a car pulled into the driveway.

"Frannie," Quinn said. "That's Rachel's car."

...

**Monday, September 5 / 8:45pm**

Santana yanked the stack of dishes from her mother's hands and slammed them down into the sink, rinsing them one by one and dropping them roughly into the dishwasher. She hit the switch to run the garbage disposal and smirked with satisfaction as her mother flinched at the unexpected loud, grinding noise.

"Hey, settle down, baby."

Santana slammed the dishwasher closed and turned the dial. She turned her back on her mother and tried to push past her to leave the kitchen.

Her mother grabbed her by the wrist.

"Why are you so mad at your mama?"

"Don't play dumb. You know exactly why I'm pissed."

"You watch your mouth, angel. You may be almost eighteen but I will still ground your little behind. Don't test me."

"Sorry, mother dearest, but I believe you are already aware of the nature of my complaint."

Santana's mother dropped her wrist.

"I was just happy for you, baby. I wanted your cousins to be happy for you, too."

"Yeah, I especially loved the part where you told them all they could come visit me in California, as if I'm already living there. You realize I haven't made this decision yet, right?"

"I suppose I'm confident you'll make the right one."

"You know what? You and Dad are bullies. You with your passive-aggressive 'telling the family' bullshit and him with the not-so-subtle threats to cut me off and not pay if I go to Toledo."

"I admit we might be a little pushy. Sometimes people who are a little older and wiser can see things you can't, baby."

"And sometimes, when it's my life, I know what's best for it."

"It doesn't mean you shouldn't listen to advice."

"I know where you stand, okay?"

Santana flung herself down into a chair at the kitchen table.

"Mama, listen. If I go to USC on a cheer scholarship, that's it. That's my entire life. The girls on that squad wake up, practice, go to class, practice, do their homework, and sleep. That's it. It's like being on Sue's team, except with WAY more pressure because if I ever quit, I'd have to drop out of school because I just lost my scholarship."

Santana's mother looked at her, brow furrowed.

"I thought you loved cheering."

"I loved being a Cheerio, but there were a lot of reasons for that, not just the cheering part. I love other things, too, like singing and performing, like having friends who aren't cheerleaders."

"Like Brittany," her mother added.

"Yeah," Santana shrugged. "Yeah, I love her. But stop making this about her, because that's insulting. I have other things in my life, Mama. And when I go to college, maybe I want to have time to take a bunch of different classes to see what they're like, and have energy to study and do well in them. I am supposed to get a career out of this, right? Mama, listen - how can I be a woman leader in the world if you won't let me be the leader in my own life?"

"Good leaders have to know about the world, Santana."

"I have lots of time to do other things, in other places. Maybe after college, I'll move to LA. Maybe I could be a Laker Girl. Or maybe I'll go to New York and spend ten years auditioning for stuff, or maybe I'll work with kids, or run for Congress, or move in with Brittany and have houseful of snot-nosed brats. Who knows? The point is, it's my decision."

Santana's mother's expression softened.

"How come this is the first time you ever talked to me like this, huh?" she asked. "You just talked to me like a grown-up-Santana. I never knew all this before."

Santana's mother pulled her into a hug.

"I guess it won't be so bad if you decide to go to Toledo, huh?" she said, her voice muffled by Santana's hair. "Your daddy and me can come see you every weekend, take you and Brittany our for dinner, meet all of your friends. . ."

"Mama," Santana said, patting her mother on the back, "If this is your last ditch reverse psychology effort to send me to California. . . it's working."

...

**Monday, September 5 / 8:54pm**

"I'll be in the kitchen keeping mom busy," Frannie said.

Quinn helped her to her feet, neck craned to watch Rachel step out of the car and close the door behind her. Frannie raised her eyebrows and gave Quinn a hopeful little smile, then disappeared into the house as discreetly as a woman who is seven months pregnant can manage.

"I'm sorry for interrupting," Rachel said, stopping halfway up the sidewalk between the driveway and the porch. "I figured you'd be in your room doing homework. I didn't know you'd have company."

"Well, if you came to crash my family's Labor Day picnic, you're a little late," Quinn said.

"I can come back later."

"No, it's okay. Come sit down," Quinn said, gesturing at the front porch. "We have a ton of food left. Do you want me to go get you something?"

"No, thank you. I was at Santana's barbeque for a few hours this afternoon. They made black bean sliders just for me; I think I might not need to eat for three days. You know, I really can come back another time," Rachel said again as she reached the top step up to the porch. "It looked like you and your sister were having a conversation and I just barged right in."

"Rachel, why don't you stop being polite and tell me why you're here?" Quinn said, sitting down on the wicker love seat beneath the living room window.

Rachel flinched at the demand in Quinn's voice, and sat down gingerly in a chair beside her.

"No, I wasn't - I'm not trying to be bitchy," Quinn said, more gently. "You sort of have me in suspense, here." She forced herself to smile.

"Right," Rachel said, reaching into her purse. "Well. I came to give you this."

She handed Quinn a bright yellow, slightly mangled daffodil.

"It's to say I'm sorry. I shouldn't have blown up at you the other night."

"It's really pretty, thank you. But you didn't have to, Rachel. I deserved at least one good blow up, I think."

"I had to call six different florists to get that. They're not in season, and it's a National Holiday."

"Is the guilt to go along with the gift a Jewish thing?"

"Very funny. It just, it had to be a daffodil because-"

"I remember," Quinn said, a blush touching the tops of her cheeks.

Rachel smiled tentatively. "I brought you this, too." She reached into her purse again and retrieved a wrinkled piece of paper that looked like it was once an envelope for bank deposits.

"What's this?" Quinn asked, taking it from her. "Are you paying me to leave you alone?"

"I had to use what I could find in the car. Flip it over."

"Contract for Reinstatement of Romantic Relationship," Quinn said, reading the big, bold letters at the top.

Rachel smiled and raised her eyebrows expectantly. Quinn looked at her blankly.

"I thought the symmetry was kind of, you know," Rachel clarified.

"Right. So wait. . . Rachel, with this, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Read it first, Quinn."

"I, Rachel Berry, and I, blank space-"

"That's where your name will go."

"I suspected that. I, Quinn Fabray, do solemnly swear that upon reinstatement of a romantic relationship, we will abide by the following rules.

Rule number one: No sex."

"That's wouldn't be a permanent condition," Rachel added hurriedly.

"Rule number two: No illicit or mind-altering substances. Rule number three: Weekly discussions of our feelings."

"We can put together the syllabus later," Rachel interrupted, "But I suggest Sunday evenings for the meetings."

"Uh huh. Rule number four: Respect each other's boundaries and goals as individuals. Rule five: If we have relationship problems, talk to each other first. Parentheses, 'The Girlfriends Before Cheerleaders Rule'."

Quinn folded the envelope in half.

"I realize the presentation isn't as professional as the last contract I asked you to sign," Rachel said, "But I was hoping you'd overlook it and appreciate my spontaneity."

"I do appreciate that."

"Because, Quinn, I just - I just thought you and I needed to take it slow this time. We need to take some of the pressure out of things."

A smile touched the corners of Quinn's lips. "So you drew up a contract for us to sign with a bunch of rules about how to do that?"

"Exactly."

"I'm not going to sign this, Rachel."

"Oh." Rachel's shoulders slumped and she looked down at her lap. "So, you've had a change of heart, then? The magic of the theater wore off?"

Quinn reached over and took Rachel's hand.

"Not at all."

Quinn yanked on Rachel's arm and pulled her onto the love seat next to her.

"I think these are great ideas, Rachel. I completely agree that we need to take things slowly. And we need to communicate with clear heads, and respect each other."

"Exactly, which is why I think it's so important for us to sign the contract before we go any further."

"I also understand, Rachel, that exuberant organization is your way of dealing with uncertainty."

Rachel pursed her lips. "I suppose there may be a kernel of truth in that."

"And that's why I'm going to keep this," Quinn said, folding the envelope again and tucking it into the pocket of her jacket. "And I promise to always have it in mind. But maybe what we need more than anything, Rachel. . . is to lighten up, a little bit."

"_You_ want to lighten up?"

"See, I'm doing this thing where I'm trying to accept what I am and am not ready for, you know? Let go a little more, not try to control all the changes in my life. Sort of . . . let things happen without too many rules for how it should go."

"Sort of like AA, where you turn over control to a higher power and all that?"

"Maybe a little like that, I guess. I just think that everything got so serious for us this summer. But this school year is our last one together. You and me, our friends. Maybe the only rule should be that we try to have fun."

"That might be really hard sometimes."

"Yeah," Quinn said. "It might be."

"Quinn?" Rachel said quietly. "Can I have that hug you were going to give me after the show that night?"

Quinn wrapped Rachel up in her arms, held her close, closed her eyes. A warmth spread through her like she hadn't felt in a long time. A little sigh of relief rose and fell like a wave through her chest.

When she opened her eyes, her sister Frannie was peeking at them through the front door.

"Can I help you?" Quinn asked, but her voice just wouldn't sound angry, even though it had been her intention.

"I was just wondering if Rachel wanted to come in for dessert."

Quinn pulled back, and the look in her eyes answered the question for Rachel.

"Thank you, Frannie," she said, "But I should get going. First day of school tomorrow, and everything."

"Okay. I'll leave you alone. Get home safely, Rachel."

"Thanks, Frannie. So, uh, I guess I'll see you then?" Rachel said to Quinn, standing.

"Yep. I'll see you then," Quinn said. She took Rachel's hand and held it until their arms were stretched out shoulder to fingertip. She let go only as Rachel reached the porch steps.

When Rachel's car disappeared down the street, Quinn went back inside the house.

Frannie was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

"It seems like that went well," she said quietly.

Quinn, with tears in her eyes, leaned against Frannie's chest and let her sister hug her.

...

**Tuesday, September 6 / 7:31am **

"Oh my God, it's starting already," Santana groaned as she spotted the perky gait of Rachel Berry barreling down the hallway toward them. "It's too fucking early for this."

"Do you mean in the day or the school year?" Brittany teased.

"Both."

"You might as well get used to it," Quinn said. "It's going to happen every morning."

"Do you think there's any chance I can get my locker reassigned to the basement where she'll never find me? And they'll never find her body if she does?"

"Okay, now remember everybody," Rachel began as soon as she came within ear shot. "It's the moment we've been waiting for all summer. The first day of school is here, and it's time to put all of our plans into full effect. Brittany, this is a stack of fliers advertising the back to school assembly on Friday afternoon. At lunch, I want you to hand out each and every one."

"But, doesn't the whole school have to go to that anyway?" Brittany asked, frowning as she took the stack of paper from Rachel.

"Yes, but we want them to be _excited! _ Santana, as we discussed, you and I have a sixth period study hall date to review the results of your latest practice SAT, and before you ask, no I will not go over it with you under the bleachers while you get high. Quinn, I suggest we meet up after school to put together your student body president platform. Nominations will take place in two weeks so we'll want to start a whisper campaign about your candidacy no later than this weekend."

"Santana, is it okay if I walk to class with Artie and Mike and Tina?" Brittany asked, after patiently waiting for Rachel to take a breath. "We all have health class first period."

"Well, calling it walking is being generous in some cases," Santana said. "But all right. I'll see you in Glee."

"Thank you," Brittany said, and gave Santana a peck on the cheek.

"Don't forget, Brittany! Fliers at lunch!" Rachel called after her. "One final thing," she said, turning back to Quinn and Santana, "We're going to reinstate band practice at my house this Saturday evening. Please let me know via text message your earliest availability as soon as you know it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a 7:40 appointment with Miss Pillsbury to discuss the organization of my extracurricular activities on my college application packets. Have a good first day everyone!"

She turned on her heel and was immediately lost in the crowd.

"Your girlfriend is one hundred percent obnoxious," Santana observed, leaning back against her locker.

"What, you don't want your senior year to be the best, most-productive time ever?" Quinn smirked, leaning beside her.

"Fuck that," Santana replied. "This year is a stepping stone to way better, way more important things. And by the way, it did not escape my notice that you didn't object to the word girlfriend. So what's going on there, chica? I think I've earned the right to know the status of your relationship at all times."

Quinn shrugged, a cryptic smile on her lips.

"So is it official?"

"We're not labeling it," Quinn said. "We've agreed not to date anyone else, and. . . we're going to talk."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Did you at least have make-up sex?"

"We're trying to be friends first. Sex would be a terrible idea."

"That sentence makes you a disappointment on so many levels. I'd rather go to class than stand here with you right now, that is how much you suck."

"Fine, go ahead," Quinn said as Santana turned to leave. "Although I was going to tell you. . ."

Santana stopped. "Tell me what?"

Quinn looked over her shoulder for eavesdroppers.

"I was going to tell you how amazing I thought Rachel's tits looked today, but if you don't want to talk to me, then whatever."

Quinn started down the hallway. Santana lagged behind, her boots frozen to the tile.

"I knew you'd admit it, you know," she said, regaining her composure and catching up to Quinn. "If there's two things Santana Lopez knows, it's good tits and girls who like good tits."

"You're so classy I almost can't take it," Quinn said.

"You love me. Anyway, I was thinking, now that we both have this newfound appreciation for chicks, you and me and Britts should think about rejoining the Cheerios. You do remember those skirts, right?"

"You might be legitimately insane."

"Really? Because I bet between the three of us we could convince Berry that being a cheerleader would look great on her college applications. Did you ever think about her in one of those outfits?"

Quinn stopped in her tracks. "Okay," she said, turning into her first period classroom. "I'll get back to you."

...

**Saturday, September 10 / 8:40pm**

Rachel descended the stairs into her basement, balancing a tray of snacks in her hands. At the bottom of the stairs, she set it on the bar, breathing a sigh of relief when it came to rest safely.

"Okay guys!" she called out, clapping her hands to get their attention. "So, we have quite a spread. Orange slices, unsalted popcorn, two thirds of a bag of veggie chips, dried cranberries, vegan graham crackers, and organic artichoke hummus. Oh! And a chocolate coconut Luna bar, but we'll have to draw straws to see who gets it."

A few of her guests looked her way with mild disinterest, and then promptly went back to whatever they were doing. At the piano, Tina was adjusting Santana's hands on the keys. Behind Finn's practice drum pad, he and Brittany were laughing. On the stage, Puck, Sam, and Artie formed a loose circle, holding their guitars. Next to the microphone stand, Quinn sat cross-legged, reading a book, her guitar laying flat next to her.

Rachel crossed the room in a huff. She'd just broken a sweat gathering everything in her dads' kitchen that could possibly be included in the snack category of edible choices. It wasn't her fault she hadn't been warned that band practice was going to turn into some kind of Glee Club jam session. It was a terrible position to put a hostess in.

"What are you guys talking about?" she asked, approaching the stage after no one paid attention to her indignation.

"Artie's new woman," Puck said. "We're trying to figure out her cup size from this picture. What do you think Rachel? You've got some experience with different-sized boobs."

"Ugh, shut up, Puckerman."

"And you wonder why I'm sitting on the floor ignoring you," Quinn said.

"Are you talking about his so-called girlfriend?" Santana asked, sauntering up behind Rachel. "Because I'm going with the theory that it's actually some creepy old dude with a cripple fetish until proven otherwise."

"Actually, Santana, her name is Janine. I've Skyped with her three times, and this is her picture," Artie said, holding his phone up for Santana to see.

Santana's mouth fell open as she took in the image. "Now that is just not right," she muttered, turning away. "How does he get these hot girls? It's so wrong."

"Well done, Artie," Quinn said. "I wish I knew how to shut her up that quickly."

"Yeah, I have to say," Artie said, "I'm sort of glad Janine lives in Chicago. It's far from me, but it's also far from Santana."

"I don't get the idea you have to worry about Santana these days, Artie," Rachel said.

"Hey, Quinn, why don't you join us? We promise to talk about music instead," Sam said, extending his hand to help her up. "Do you want to work on one of the songs you were asking me about?"

"I guess," Quinn said, closing her book and taking Sam's hand. "I've made a lot of progress on them, actually."

Rachel smiled and left them to their practice. She joined Santana on the couch.

"You're gonna be hittin' that again by Homecoming," Santana said, indicating toward Quinn with a nod of her head.

Rachel bit her lower lip, but couldn't completely hide her smile. "Actually, we might've had a sort of. . . relapse. It was Tuesday night while we were working on her campaign."

"You had what?"

"No, shhh! We didn't have sex, okay? We just. . . accidentally. . . made out, a little bit." Rachel covered her face with her hands. "I think we missed each other."

"I revise my previous statement," Santana said. "You're gonna be hittin' that by the end of the weekend."

"No, we're not, we're - we're going to talk online more, I think."

"Online? Why?"

"It was Quinn's idea. She thinks maybe it'll be easier for her to open up about stuff if we talk that way. With more distance, you know? Plus then we can't, you know, fall into old patterns, if you will."

"You mean into each other's vaginas."

"Yeah."

"Well, like I said to Britt a couple of months ago, y'all are far more tolerable when you're together, so. Be as lame as you want if it helps you work your shit out, I guess."

"Thanks, Santana."

"Don't thank me, I think you're both dumb as doorknobs."

"No, I mean thank you for everything."

"You mean for tolerating your bullshit this summer? Bitch, I told Quinn I wanted actual, physical presents for that."

"No," Rachel smiled. "I mean, for _everything_. For starting me and you. For me and Quinn. It's been sort of horrible at times, but, looking at her up there having fun, having the three of you in my life. . . I wouldn't change anything that happened."

"Now, that's a lovely sentiment and everything, Berry, but technically, YOU started it when you checked me out so hard my clothes practically fell on the choir room floor."

Rachel blushed. "Details. Anyway. Thank you." She leaned over and hugged Santana.

"So are we going to start practicing?" Quinn's voice interrupted them.

Rachel and Santana broke their hug to find Quinn standing beside the couch with her guitar over her shoulder, Brittany approximately a foot behind her.

"Yes!" Rachel said, getting to her feet. "Yes we are! And you're cute when you're jealous," she whispered as she passed Quinn on her way to the microphone.

"Wearing a t-shirt, Q?" Santana observed, as she slid over to make room for Brittany on the couch. "Glad you finally acknowledged my wardrobe wisdom."

"Don't get used to it, I just need to do laundry."

"Attention!" Rachel was saying, tapping on the microphone. "Attention everyone. I have an announcement. Santana, Brittany, Quinn - I got us our first gig!"

"What?" Quinn and Santana exclaimed together.

"It's next Sunday night at Breadstix!"

"You're insane!" Santana said.

"We're not ready!" Quinn said at the same time.

"It's only a three-song set," Rachel said calmly. "We'll be ready."

Santana was on her feet.

"I didn't authorize this. Three songs? What are they going to be?" she asked, striding toward the stage. Puck, Sam, and Artie backed away, retreating toward Finn in the corner. Tina crossed hurriedly in front of the stage toward the safety of the group.

"I've composed a list for your consideration," Rachel said.

"Oh really? One of them better be Amy Winehouse or I'll bury that microphone in your organic hummus, and that may or may not be a euphemism."

On the couch, Quinn and Brittany sighed in unison.

"Hey Quinn."

"Yes, Brittany?"

"I feel like you and me might be spending a lot of time like this in the next year."

"Brittany. . . I think you may be right."

Quinn crossed her arms over her chest, and smiled.

* * *

><p><em>I have been running so sweaty my whole life<em>

_Urgent for a finish line_

_But I have been missing the rapture this whole time_

_Of being forever incomplete_

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

**Wednesday, October 19 / 3:06pm**

Brittany's footsteps pounded against the hallway floor. She'd been running at top speed, dodging the dispersing student body for five minutes, looking for Santana.

She hadn't been at her locker, or the girl's room, or the other girl's room. Brittany finally found her alone in the choir room, her feet propped up on the piano, flipping through sheet music.

"Did you hear?" Brittany asked breathlessly.

"Hear what?"

"Look at your phone!"

Santana fished her phone out of her bookbag.

"Check your email," Brittany urged.

Santana's heart skipped a beat. Her newest email was a message from Coach Brighton. The subject line read "Welcome to the Toledo Rockets!"

"We made it?" Santana asked.

"We BOTH made it! The email says the official letter will come next week but she wanted to tell us herself."

Santana jumped to her feet and into Brittany's arms.

"Did you- we need to text Hannah, and Devi, and Alex," she said.

"Go ahead, you do it," Brittany said, smiling.

Brittany watched Santana type on her phone.

"You're going to get them all excited, though," she pointed out, "When you might not even be going there."

"Actually. . ." Santana said, and raised an eyebrow.

Brittany's eyes widened. "Santana?"

"I choose Toledo."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Santana!" Brittany exclaimed, and picked Santana up, spinning her around.

"How did you make up your mind?" Brittany asked, after setting her back down on her feet.

"I don't know, I just. . . I don't need to be the best cheerleader, I guess. There are lots of things to be the best at. Plus, you better believe we're gonna whip that scraggly band of slackers into fighting shape together."

"So, do you think you did good enough on your SATs? I mean, _well _enough?"

"I guess we'll find out. But I really think I did, Britt."

"We can always try again, too, if we didn't."

"I guess we need to finish our application packets for real now," Santana said.

"What are you going to major in, Santana? It says you have to pick something on your application and I can't decide."

"Okay, well," Santana said, "Tell me if you think this is crazy. But I was thinking about majoring in psychology. I mean, my mother says it's a major for people with no direction who are just smart enough to know you can't get a job with an English degree, but I have like straight A's in that class this semester. I stay awake and everything, cause it's like, really interesting."

"That's not crazy at all, Santana. What would you want to do with it when you graduated?"

"I was thinking of working with kids, maybe?" she said.

"You would be so good at that," Brittany beamed.

"It's just an idea," Santana said, shrugging sheepishly. "So, what about you?"

"Well, one of my ideas was majoring in accounting."

"Wait, what?"

"Working with Quinn over the summer, I realized I really like stuff with numbers. Why, do you think accounting is a bad idea?"

"No, Britt, not at all. I guess I always thought you'd do something creative."

"I will! My mom says accountants have stable careers that don't take up any brain power, so you have lots of mental energy to pursue other things in your spare time. And I want to make money, Santana. Lord Tubbington and you are both accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so I want to make sure I can buy you both the stuff you're used to."

"Brittany, I think that is a brilliant plan," Santana said.

"Do you want to go find Quinn and Rachel and tell them the good news?"

"After you," Santana said, and followed Brittany out of the choir room.

...

**Friday, October 21 / 11:09am**

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Rachel asked with a smile as she walked into the choir room.

Quinn set down her pen and smiled up at Rachel. "Hey."

Rachel sat down next to her in the third row of chairs.

"I had an appointment with Ms. Pillsbury," Quinn said. "I got out ten minutes ago, and didn't see any point in going back to Calculus. So why are you here early? Do you just have a permanent hall pass to come here at your leisure?"

"We had a sub in AP Lit. He was wasting my time, so I came here early to corner Mr. Schuester while there's no one else here to give me any flak over my verbally bludgeoning him with song selections for Regionals."

Quinn bit back her amusement. "You know in college you have to go to ALL of your classes, right? We learned that from Jesse St. James, yes?"

"We'll see about that," Rachel said. "You didn't tell me you had a meeting today."

"I needed application advice," Quinn said. "There's all this information online, and schools have been emailing me their propaganda like crazy. But sometimes you need to just ask someone who knows what they're talking about."

"Did you come to any decisions?"

"Not on schools. I'm pretty sure I changed my mind on my major, though."

"I thought you were so excited about biology," Rachel said, concern creeping into her voice.

"I guess I was mildly excited," Quinn hedged. "But I've decided to go with anthropology, actually."

"What is that, like, digging up dinosaur bones?"

"That's archaeology," Quinn said. "Which is one kind of anthropology, but not the one I was thinking of."

"That's too bad," Rachel said. "You would look cute in a big, wide hat with dust on your nose."

Quinn smiled. "I'm leaning toward cultural anthro."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it sort of means that you like to study human ideas."

"So. . . so what schools are good for that? For'cultural anthro?'"

"Berkeley and Stanford. Those are seriously hard to get into, though, and I'm not sure I want to go to California."

"So, anything a little more. . . east coast?"

"University of Michigan."

Rachel nodded.

"University of Pennsylvania."

"Well that's only a two-hour train ride from New York, and in the same city as University of the Arts," Rachel said, perking up a little.

"And Penn State."

"Only a few hours by bus to Pittsburgh! Not that it's about me, of course," Rachel added quickly. "I just mean if I were to go to Carnegie Mellon and you went to Penn State, we could see each other pretty often."

"I'm looking at Pitt, too. But Rachel, are you actually seriously considering going somewhere other than New York next year?"

"I'll admit it's unexpected, considering my well-documented love affair with The Big Apple. But Carnegie Mellon is such a great program - I'm kind of in love with it. And, to be honest, I like the idea of having a true college experience somewhere other than New York before I go there, get my big break, and get thrown into the national spotlight."

"Interesting how things might work out, then," Quinn said.

"Yeah," Rachel agreed. "It is. So, hey Quinn, I'm going to kiss you now."

Quinn looked around the choir room to make sure it was truly empty.

"Okay, Rachel," she said, smiling. "Go ahead. I'm ready."


End file.
